Just when I was realizing, walking across the Marais, that the [gay] world wasn’t represented fairly by the chatroom psychos (it happens that, in real life, there’s a whole bunch of completely different types of psychos, who may be much more interesting than the online ones), and as I was discovering a convivial bar, I spoiled it all by displaying my best tight-ass Parisian frown, and sending assassin stares to whoever dares address me (even though some of those people were… interesting). I have to say I hate going alone in a bar, and I only went because F. was giving a mini-concert there. Next time I’ll have to either get drunk in advance or bring someone in so I don’t spend the 15-minute break on my own, gazing into the void like the socially inapt geek I’ve never stopped being. On nights like this I feel like I’m fifteen again—or rather, like I’ve never been beyond that. No wonder I have no income.
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