Hi Mum, before you meet my girlfriend could you sign this non-disclosure agreement?

I did a VERY silly thing during this cold. I didn’t take my meds for two days. Why? Anna Nicole Smith’s dead son. Killed by anti-deps and methadone in a tragic accident. And I thought it would be just my luck to croak. I can see the headline. “Obscure Lesbian Video Artist Killed by Psych Meds and Cough Suppressants.” It’s even more ignoble than my fear of being run over by the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile.

Yes, now I understand that methadone is very different than a cough suppressant.

So what happened? Well, I woke myself up several times one night by constantly talking in my sleep, but my voice was fucked by plegm so I was talking in mainly vowel sounds that loosely mimicked english speech patterns. The next day I trolled the internet for hours looking for lesbian celebrity gossip (fueled by my need for the perfect coming out blog, and, er, that I haven’t had a girlfriend for years). Then last night NO SLEEP!!! These are senseless voyages into the dark world of nothingness and infocommercials. I gave up on the infocommercials ages ago (when you think a spatula thrown into the 19.95 price is a steal, it’s time to turn it off). Luckily I had hypomania to keep me company.

I recently read that one out of 24 people has a voice in their head on a regular basis and it improves their lives, they’re healthy, normal people. My voices used to be mean, but now they’re quite intellectual, philosophical, comical and little cheerleaders. Anyway, they entertained me last night as I mused on the notion of dating a closeted or semi closeted celebrity. What would a non-disclosure agreement entail? And what would my conversations with my friends be like? I’d have to refer to her as Miss X. I don’t think a closeted celeb would date me, I have Big Dyke written all over me. Of course, so do some of them. And then my long wintery wasteland of celebacy would make me run around all over going “I have a girlfriend!” and then people would ask me about her and stuff and I wouldn’t be able to say her name or anything. “Uh, she’s tall, white, has brunette hair, starts giggling when you whip her.” She’d become the Snuffalopagos girlfriend that no one would see, except for the sad fact they would see her, all the time, macking on a closeted gay man for the tabloids.

And what about introducing her to your family? Would my mom have to sign a non-disclosure agreement?

But even better, what about the possibilities of being a kept woman to a glamourous forty something sugar momma!? Quiet evenings alone in a penthouse, occasional jaunts to third world countries to go window shopping for babies to adopt. Hearing gossip about other closeted lesbians. Getting rip roaring drunk on her $600 bottle of Cognac and barfing sushi all over her $20 000 carpet. And the hopeful outcome of being passed on to another glamourous closeted forty something celebrity after the romance has faded and her carpet cleaning bill comes in.

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