I’m not dead, I’m in Charleston. I’m departing for warmer climes, namely various Beaches and Keys in Florida, this Thursday. One of my new year’s resolutions, which I typically don’t make simply because they are not only doomed to failure but also completely and utterly inane, was to induce neither vomiting nor sneering while down there. I just did 27 sit-ups. I was aiming for 50. Not only am I a tool, but I’m also not very good at being a tool.

Another of my resolutions is to begin keeping up with world events again, ending the self-imposed media quarantine that followed last year’s cavalcade of pain. While I may not again achieve the obsessive level I had previously, I fear my almost total self-involvement over the last few months had begun to make me frighteningly dull. My greatest fear, previously confessed to only one person on the planet, is to die having lived a boring life.

Making the bi-monthly pilgrimage to see the Husband again has finally relieved me of a few illusions: 1) that all gay men are naturally fastidious, 2) that I could ever tolerate a living situation that involves roommates I am neither related to nor romantically involved with, 3) that generally liking a person is cause enough to believe you would make good roomies. Lies, fictions and mistruths, all. If I ever did live in such a situation, I would be forced to create a seperate blog to chronicle all of the things that my roomates did that simply annoyed the hell out of me, and no one wants to see that.