Insomniac.

It's 2004.

I'm no longer interested in the guy I met at the hair salon because he likes the movies "Trick" and "Love! Valour! Compassion!" Thus, he doesn't get that most gay movies are bad. I told him that I didn't really own many gay movies, and he asked me who my gay role models were. I asked him why my role models had to be gay.

I rang in the New Year by drinking too much at Larry's, making some crude jokes to amuse That One of the Davids (whom I may just like because he's the only other single one and the one closest to my age) and passing out alone in a futon. The telling of the jokes and the use of the alcohol, I thought, made me seem Dorothy Parker-ish, and I felt proud until I remembered how many times she tried to kill herself.

I kissed no one on New Year's. And even though I understand the point of it, I'm going to feign dumb and say that I can't figure the point of a New Year's kiss.

I cleaned out my car with my mother, so I now have a backseat and room for actual passengers. (I'm assuming that, since I said my dirty car was a means of keeping people away, I'm expected to now fill it with people because there's space. Otherwise, what's the psychology?) Now, my apartment is an atrocious mess.

I bought the anniversary issue of PLAYBOY because I'm guessing it has retrospective articles and fiction in it. I haven't looked at it yet, and I bought it at my own bookstore - which mildly amused my co-workers. ("He says he's reading it FOR THE ARTICLES!!!") I'm a secure man. I'm an adult. Why can't a gay man buy an issue of PLAYBOY?

Miss Gibson, in the country to attend a funeral, had a layover at the Atlanta airport, and I talked to her for a couple hours over coffee. We talked about my impending trip, my friend Black, the music of Rufus Wainwright, the difference between life in England and America and how cool and cheap the clothes from Old Navy are. It was a good visit. I miss her.

On the train back to my apartment from the airport, a Friendster friend of mine - someone I knew from college - stepped on to my train and didn't know who I was. Contrary to my own impulses, I said nothing to him about it on the train. The next day, I wrote a "Saw you on the train" e-mail, and he apologized for not speaking to me. Why is this a notable occurrence in my life? Why did I - at four different points during the weekend - check movie times just to see if ANYTHING I hadn't seen was playing?

Why did I occupy HOURS downloading music on to my laptop? Why didn't I go outside more? Why am I not writing more? Why am I only writing easy stuff?

Why is it that, in the fifth season, I can no longer identify with Miranda on SEX AND THE CITY and now must identify, sadly, with Carrie - the somewhat immature, self-centered writer-paranoid character? I want to be Miranda.

I've gained weight. I had cheese fries this weekend, though, and Oreo cookies. I think that, according to my internal diet-watch guilt impulse, that's the only junk food I'm allowed to eat this year.

My body is revolting against me. I think my face has gotten bigger, and the skin behind my underarms is all wrinkled and saggy. I feel like Bette Davis in RETURN TO WITCH MOUNTAIN.

And I think I worked every day that wasn't a holiday, with the exception of the day after Christmas - when I mourned for my lost savings as I paid an American Express bill.

I still haven't gotten my passport.

Lupo talked to me on the phone today, and he sounded all chipper and happy. I'd pose with him in one of those photo booths at the mall if he was around. I would smile, and he would smile. And I would look at the photo and say to myself, "This is my friend." But, you know, he probably wouldn't want to pose for a bunch of silly photo-booth photos with me. He'd probably say that I was channeling AMELIE, then he'd tell me how much he hated that movie and hated its ridiculous overuse of sentiment. And we'd get into an argument. And that, in itself, would be fun.

Vic, who once did pose in a photo booth with me, has been trying to arrange a meeting with me for two weeks or so. She was finally available when I was available this weekend, but she's come down with some sort of horrible illness, which just started improving today - enough time for her to return to her job and its schedule that conflicts with mine. I miss her.

Kacoon has put in her two weeks' notice at her job - and she reported her lax supervisors to her store's regional managers. So cool for her, I guess.

I was looking in MEN'S HEALTH magazine about new fashion trends, and it says that the latest craze involves a dark suit that makes you look like Michael Caine in ALFIE. The suit they showed looked good. It made me want that suit.

But I don't think I'm cute right now, so I should go to sleep.