So it seems I’m now 35 years old. It’s supposed to be a very good year for blue-blooded girls of independent means. But I’m still chasing after blue-haired boys of questionable means. That’s OK. I’m comfortable with the fact that Frank Sinatra might not approve of my life.

Thoughts on the day:

• I can now run for president, which is a nice irony on the 25th anniversary of Nixon’s resignation.
• I think I’ve jumped into a new Nielsen demographic. I’m now only allowed to watch CBS.
• I’ve now lived half the life the Bible guarantees. I’m not sure if this is a money-back guarantee. If I live longer than 70 years, do I have to pay more?
• The only two famous people who share my birthday are Rosanna Arquette (5 years older) and Herbert Hoover (35 years deader). No major truths can be gained from this fact.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing anyone who dares show up tonight. And thanks for all the good wishes, etc.

Did you ever get the feeling there was some sort of running gag and that YOU were the punchline? I’ve decided that’s how I feel in most social situations, particularly those involving he-faggots.

I know it’s not really true. I realize that most people at the average bar, party, or whatever don’t give a rat’s ass about me one way or the other. But I still feel that everyone’s looking at me or laughing at me or thinking “what a putz”. The feeling’s usally much more prevalent in queer bars, but it can happen anywhere.

Never having really been the sociable sort (despite some valiant charades), I think I’ve never become really comfortable with the idea that any group of people might actually want me to be a part of it. Of course, it all goes back to junior high and self-esteem issues (insert appropriate psychobabble here), but you’d think I might have gotten past it by now.

Of course, there are benefits. When Mr. Right shows up in a bar, I’m usually not surrounded by an impenetrable entourage. I’ve also managed to forge a certain appealing aloofness out of this particular neurosis. Or so I’ve convinced myself…

All the same, though, it might be nice to wander up to a group of acquaintances without feeling I was butting in and being barely tolerated. I also get the same feeling almost any time I have to call someone the phone, oddly enough. It’s a feeling I’ve been having weekly (or more) for almost twenty years now, and I think I’m ready to be rid of it.

I guess it’s time to flip my office calendar over to August now. For six days, I’ve been looking at the mini-month in the corner rather than actually standing up and turning the page.

So it seems that, just as the nasty funk of the past month or so is starting to lift (maybe), I’m now coming down with a cold. Fine. I give up. I’m just going to sit in a corner with Irma and pout until the rainy season arrives. The hell with everything.

Don’t worry, though. I’ll still sneak out for Tuesday’s birthday non-event. But right now, all I want to do is go to bed, read my new White Castle book for a while, and then sleep for a very long time.

While I’m asleep, I will not think about the following:

• My long-term financial, geographic, or mental status.
• The fact that there will not be one single candidate worth considering in this year’s mayoral election and that we’ll therefore be stuck with Emperor Willie for four more years.
• The diseased lung I looked at while working on (irony of ironies) an anti-smoking website last night.
• Sex (or lack thereof).
• The asshole next door who has this tendency to work on his ugly orange convertible right outside my office window at all hours of the day and night.
• Ways to keep that miserable orange convertible from ever bothering me again.

Please add three years to the cake above for accuracy. And for those of you who are interested, my semi-public birthday gathering is now officially scheduled.

Seems birthday season is here. Tonight, I celebrated my ex-roomie’s birthday with 11 friends and acquaintances at El Trebol on 24th Street in the Mission. I almost hesitated to mention the name of the place, as it was also a Best of the Bay winner last week. While getting one of these awards last year didn’t ruin Planet SOMA, a restaurant is a far more fragile thing.

Great dinner. Great cake. And I get to go to sleep secure in the knowledge that Dan is (and will always be) eight days older than me.

Things I love this week:

• Birthday presents from Duncan and Patric (one of them being the White Castle book, so scratch that from the list)
• WKRP in Cincinatti
• Bumblebee Tuna for 60 cents a can at Lucky
• The fog
• The new living room couch I’ll have this weekend. Finally.