Margaret still calls now and again… and again. Maybe more again than I’d like. Today she called me at work, and said she wants to fly down to Frisco to visit — twice. “Once in June, definitely, for your birthday, and maybe once before then.”

From Pathetic Life #8
Wednesday, January 18, 1995
Look, I like Maggie. Really, I do. I’m not wild about visitors, though. My mom and sister are coming next month, and that’s enough visitors for 1995.
Margaret is a little crazy, and she makes me a little crazy, and it’s never going to work out between us. Dames usually say this to me, instead of me saying it to them, but — I think me and Maggie work better as friends.
When she called, though, she made it clear that this would be a “more than friends” visit. The thought of that stirs my blood, I won’t lie, but the last time we saw each other she frickin’ beat me up.
Also part of the equation is that she’s sorta suicidal. I don’t know the details, and she rarely talks about it, but Maggie tried to kill herself, some time before I knew her. That’s something I don’t want, and sure as hell I don’t want it on me, so I hesitate to say, point blank, it’s over, stop calling me, a Christmas card is enough, knickers on please.
When she suggested two visits in six months, I told her I’ve taken a vow of celibacy. I don’t know where that came from. She didn’t believe it, because we kid around and always have, and of course it sounds ridiculous. I don’t need to take a vow — I’m ugly, crude, bad breath, the whole package, so celibacy is bestowed upon me.
As lies go, it’s a good one, though. If I say it several more times over several weeks, keep a straight face with no chuckles, she’ll maybe believe it. Yeah, the details are starting to take shape in my mind…
How’s this? I’ve been hanging out with some Buddhists, see, and we chant a lot — or is that the hairless Krishnas? Whatever. We’ve all sworn to abstain from sex of any kind until, um, New Year’s Eve 1999, and even then, we’re only allowed sex with other men. And only once.
Or, I could do the grown-up thing. I could remind her what she told me, before she forgot: That we’re over. We could do lunch, but no sleepovers. Cripes, I hate being a grown-up. Whose idea was that?
♦ ♦ ♦
Massive mood swings, man. Factsheet Five came in the mail, and I of course flipped straight to the review of Pathetic Life, except it wasn’t there. I started hollering at the walls, Jesus H Christ! I’ve been sending freebies to R Seth Friedman, and he told me to expect a good review, but I never got the promised post card with the text, and now the zine isn’t even listed.
Well, double-fuck you too, Friedman!
Then I started flipping through the rest of Factsheet Five, and guess what? Pathetic Life is an Editor’s Choice — that’s why it’s up front, instead of being back with all the P zines. I take it all back, Seth. You’re a wonderful fellow, a perceptive critic of the written word, and it was ignorant of me to imagine otherwise.
The zine has gotten too many good reviews lately; it’s screwing up my equilibrium. Somebody please send an angry, disgusted review, preferably demanding your money back, so I can snicker.
Anyway, the entire evening was absorbed into Factsheet Five, reading through hundreds of zine reviews, checking off zines I want to send for, until way too late and only as far as page 48, I clicked off the lamp and faded into the sunrise.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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