If a cow ever got the chance...

First of all, thanks to everyone who e-mailed or signed the guestbook; I'm feeling much better. Sometimes I wonder if I subconsciously give myself these hangovers on purpose, just so I can call in sick and spend the day drinking miso soup and eating toast and watching five solid hours of VH-1, something I do not recommend doing if you are not incapacitated in some way.

Tomorrow I am supposed to have lunch with my friend The Duke, who hasn't been mentioned in here yet. I wish I could tell you his real name, because it's so patrician and courtly and Old-World European--a description that suits him rather well also. I'll call him Cyril.

Anyway, I am becoming nervous at the thought of our little repast, since I must think up two or three good, quirky, impersonal conversation topics that will last at least ten minutes each. If I fail in this, there will be a long, awkward silence, after which he will gently inquire as to the health and employment status of my boyfriend (whom I know he loathes), and I will be mortified at my failure to provide sparkling witticisms.

Intellectual gay men are the worst people to go to lunch with if you're a socially anxious person with bad table manners. I'm not really complaining--I dig Cyril, and he always, always pays--but sometimes I wonder why he continues to call me. As a friend, I am so low-maintenance as to drop completely out of sight whenever possible (an annoying habit), and in person, I am generally silenced by his cashmere sweaters, lovely green eyes, and ability to speak three languages. I've pondered this before and can only conclude that Cyril likes me for obscure and platonic reasons of his own. Which is kind of nice.

How much of Proust do you think I can read by noon tomorrow? Just kidding.

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