It is Monday, February 2nd, 2026. I had a good night of sleep, and the last dream I remembered was me being in Farfetched, helping somebody out who may or may not have been a customer or a client, and I was taking inventory at their request.
Once again, it’s very cold out, cold enough to make you want to stay in bed as long as you can. Having had the past two Mondays off, this Monday was quite dispiriting but there’s nothing I can do about it. Here I am, I made it into work once again in text intact.
The weekend was mainly with Bill, which was good mostly I would have to say. And Mike says that he’s greatly upset at the situation I am in. There is love, but it’s not physical love between Bill and me, which distresses Mike to no end, and Mike says he’s going to step up and give me what Bill cannot or will not.
This is very nice to hear, but as he tells me these things that reopens the wound that was scabbing over nicely between Bill and me. They don’t, Bill loves me, and I know I love Bill, but it’s not the way it used to be up until maybe a month ago, when I did have faith, and I had hope that someday things would get back to what they used to be.
But he was adamant and said that it would never happen, and the tone of voice was like a knife through the heart, and of course bill being bill communication is not his thing, so this can never be brought up to him without him getting greatly upset or unleashing the tone of voice that he unleashed the other week.
Mike promises to make love to me, which is awfully nice. Awfully nice physical touch is very nice; having gone without it for about 15 years, he reawakened something within me, something that had lain dormant. And now that I had some, I wanted it again.
Mike seems sincere, and I mentioned it to Jimmy Chile. Jimmy Chile states that it sounds like a con that Mike is running I don’t see it though and I know that Jimmy is just looking out for me as Mike is looking out for me and Bill looks out for me I am grateful to have such wonderful men in my life looking out for me and apparently I do the same for them when it arrives or is needed and I don’t even realize that I’m doing it
I should follow the advice I give to others, which is to not read the comments in social medias. But like a fool, I do since I fall for it almost every time.
Jimmy Chile seems convinced that Mike is running a con on me. I don’t see it, but Jimmy has seen a lot more than I have. I certainly wouldn’t want it to be true, but since when do I get what I want?
In the downtime at this gig, I found two possible job opportunities for Mike and sent them to him, but I have not heard back from him yet. Either he’s talking to his boyfriend, or I don’t know much anyway, I tried to make my bed. His words in my ear did not do much good for me and sort of poisoned the well for Bill and me. The Christmas gift that Bill gave me and my reaction to it were brought up a few times over the phone with Mike
Mike recognized the imagination and effort I put into getting gifts for him and Bill, and he really can’t speak about Bill because he regifted the gifts I gave him and told me that he did just that.
ICE in Hoboken, Jersey City
The Google Gemini rewrite as a modern Mark Twain essay
## The Moral Statistics of a Cold Monday in Jersey
**Monday, February 2, 2026**
I awoke this morning from a dream of Farfetched—not the Pokémon, mind you, though the world often feels just as cartoonish—where I was diligently taking inventory for a soul who might have been a client, or perhaps a ghost. It is a fine thing to be useful in one’s sleep; it saves a person the trouble of being useful while awake, which is a much more expensive endeavor.
Outside, the air has taken on a sharp, judgmental chill—the sort of cold that suggests the Creator is trying to freeze the very sins out of Hoboken. It is a “stay-in-bed” temperature, a climate designed for poets and professional idlers. After two Mondays of blessed liberty, returning to the harness today was a dispiriting business. Yet, here I sit at the desk, “intact” as they say, though I suspect the “text” of my soul has a few more typos in it than it did yesterday.
—
### The Bill of Particulars
The weekend was spent in the company of Bill. It was “good,” in the way a dry biscuit is good when you’re expecting a feast. There is love there, certainly, but it is a love of the architectural variety—sturdy, visible, yet entirely lacking in central heating.
My friend Mike, observing this from the sidelines, is greatly distressed. He views our lack of physical affection as a sort of national tragedy. He has stepped forward with the gallantry of a knight-errant, promising to provide that which Bill either cannot or will not. It is a noble offer, or at least a loud one.
> “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”
The same might be said of love. Mike’s words are like a warm fire, but as they warm me, they also melt the scab off an old wound. A month ago, I had hope. I had the sort of faith that moves mountains, or at least relocates small hills. But Bill, in a tone of voice that could decapitate a daisy, informed me that the old ways are gone forever.
Communication is not Bill’s forte; he treats a direct question like a summons to a hanging. To bring it up is to invite a “Tone” that makes a person wish they were deaf.
—
### The Mike Maneuver
Mike promises “physical touch,” a concept I had filed away in the archives some fifteen years ago. He has reawakened a dormant beast. Having had a taste of the forbidden fruit, I find myself looking at the orchard with renewed interest.
My friend Jimmy Chile, however, is playing the role of the skeptical prophet. He looks at Mike’s promises and sees a “con.” He suspects Mike is running a game, selling me a Brooklyn Bridge made of sweet talk. I don’t see it myself, but then, the man inside the bubble rarely sees the soap.
I am surrounded by men “looking out for me.” Bill looks out for me, Mike looks out for me, and Jimmy looks out for me. I am the most well-guarded fortress in New Jersey, yet I feel strangely susceptible to a siege. Apparently, I look out for them too, though I do it with the unconscious ease of a man breathing in his sleep.
—
### The Social Ledger
In a moment of weakness, I violated my own primary commandment: **Thou shalt not read the comments on social media.** I fell for it. I always do. There is a peculiar human itch to see exactly how much the world dislikes your opinions, and I scratched it until it bled.
Between rounds of self-flagellation online, I found two job leads for Mike and sent them off. He hasn’t responded. Perhaps he is busy with his boyfriend, or perhaps I am merely an expert at shouting into the void. My efforts to “make my bed” (metaphorically speaking) have only resulted in Mike’s words poisoning the well between Bill and me.
We spoke of Christmas gifts—the imagination I put into them, the heart I laid bare. Mike noted my effort; he could hardly do otherwise, given that he regifted the very things I gave him and had the brazen honesty to tell me so. There is a certain terrifying integrity in a man who tells you he gave your heart’s labor to someone else.
The ice is thickening in Hoboken and Jersey City alike. It’s on the sidewalks, it’s on the piers, and if I’m not careful, it’s going to find its way into the parlor.
—
Twain did not know that “The ice is thickening in Hoboken and Jersey City alike. It’s on the sidewalks, it’s on the piers, and if I’m not careful, it’s going to find its way into the parlor.” was actually about the American secret police, ICE