I've Been Keeping Diaries For 27 Years.

Hugh And I Have Been Together For So Long That In Order To Arouse Extraordinary Passion, We Need To Engage In Physical Combat. Once, He Hit Me On The Back Of The Head With A Broken Wineglass, And I Fell To The Floor Pretending To Be Unconscious. That Was Romantic, Or Would Have Been Had He Rushed To My Side Rather Than Stepping Over My Body To Fetch The Dustpan.

It's Funny How Certain Objects Convey A Message - My Washer And Dryer, For Example. They Can't Speak, Of Course, But Whenever I Pass Them They Remind Me That I'm Doing Fairly Well. "no More Laundromat For You," They Hum. My Stove, A Downer, Tells Me Every Day That I Can't Cook, And Before I Can Defend Myself My Scale Jumps In, Shouting From The Bathroom, "well, He Must Be Doing _something - _my Numbers Is Off The Charts." The Skeleton Has A Much More Limited Vocabulary, And Says Only One Thing: "you Are Going To Die."

People Discuss Their Relationships All The Time, But You Can't. I Don't Think People Realize How Harmful That Is, How It Twists You Up To Hide Who You Are. It's Not Healthy, And The Great Gains That Homosexuals Have Made In My Lifetime, I Think That We'll Look Back In Twenty Or Thirty Years And Say, "i Can't Believe We Ever Made Them Go Through That."

I Can't Seem To Fathom That The Things Important To Me Are Not Important To Other People As Well, And So I Come Off Sounding Like A Missionary, Someone Whose Job It Is To Convert Rather Than Listen.

People Ask If I Miss It, But They Don't Understand That American Culture Is So Ubiquitous That There's Nothing To Miss. I Don't See Myself Moving Back. It's Not That I Hate The United States. I Just Always Thought It Would Be A Shame Not To Live In A Foreign Country.