I don’t like sloths. Their hands have long slender long taloned fingers. I imagine them inserting their skinny digits into my nose, and up into my brain, like a cute little embalmer’s tool dragging brains out of skulls. I accidentally sent a sloth to a friend. A little picture of a sloth drinking coffee. That is the last thing those buggers need, coffee. I can just about cope with the fact they exist, as long as they are slothful and slow and lazy. A hyped up sloth is too much to bear. No coffee for sloths. Sloth do not need speed.
I am not a sloth. I run far faster. The gears of my mind spin out of control. I struggle to not think. I strive not to dwell. I think things through and replay possible scenarios. I look for pitfalls and backstabbers. I obsess on my safety, and that of my Boy. I want to wrap him up in cotton wool and stand between him and a hostile world that exoticizes him, objectifies him, that wants him to fail, that seeks to define him in ways he is not comfortable with. He is meant to be a certain way. Instead he is his own young man. He goes his own way.
I have no idea how he puts up with me sometimes. I have been on a Bowie kick today. I might have played Jean Genie a few too many times, making jokes about Aladdin and his magic lamp and how we could do with a bit of wish coming true. The fact is a lot of our dreams have come true, just by being together and being in San Francisco in our little apartment. All I could wish for is the ability to stay in here after my subsidy has been used up, and to live here together quietly and happily.
It is still all too painful. All of it hurts. It is so hard to let go of what should have been and come to terms with what is. Still, as long as sloths don’t have coffee, Jean Genie exists, most importantly the Boy is safe and with me, and we can stay in our house, I will be mostly overjoyed….