39

And tomorrow is my birthday. I'll be 39 years old.

Thirty-eight has sure been interesting.

I left the stable comfy job where I was well-compensated but bored and took a chance and a paycut to go for some excitement. This turned out to be a disaster. I parted ways with my employer six months later, and said hello to want and penury.

After writing my blog for six months, I decided to write a book. It came pretty easily, just flowing off the page. And then it became a struggle. At about that time, after the umpteenth "You're such a good writer, you ought to be getting paid for your writing" email, I sent a letter proposing a column to Gay City News. The editor--whom I've known for years--did not deign to give me a response.

I set my sites on getting a slave. And what do you know? A man who wants to be my slave presents himself! He seems serious and eager. We set a date and time to meet, and he stood me up. And then he did it again. And then he did it again. But still assured me that he was eager and serious. I told him to let me know when he could make the trip down to meet me, and I would make myself available. I'm still waiting. Thus, I conclude, boys lie. I'm so much more tentative about those "Are you looking to collar, Sir?" emails I get.

And then, to prove that when you go jumping off that cliff, you land somewhere very unexpected, my whole life changed. My father wanted me to--imagine!--abandon my life and my apartment and my playspace in New York City/Beautiful Downtown Jersey City and to move back to Bucks County. And so I did. And things have turned out great.

So 38 was all about Trust, wasn't it?

Trust.

Things will turn out alright. It'll be fine. Despite all the 'Holy Shit What Do I Do Now?' experiences, it will be okay.

Hello, 39!

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