2:07 p.m. - Mar. 07, 2002
Philly
I�m completely fucking numb. How do I sit down to write, when I can barely see straight? I tell you how � because it is the only thing that keeps me even relatively sane.
Ya know the great thing about alcohol? It numbs just about everything, if you have enough.
I love you. Jesus Christ, I love you. How in the fuck could you not tell me? How in the hell could you hold this dark secret inside for so long? Somehow, in this crazy fucking world, we found each other. You, my Circus Brother, the one that says yes when all others say no, the one that will sit with me in silence when I�m in a lousy mood and comfort me. You. Baby, I love you. My heart is so fucking broken. But, I�ll just have to get over it. I�ll have to just brush all of the heartache I feel at this moment aside, because YA KNOW WHAT? It�s not worth it. The only thing that matters � the only thing that REALLY fucking matters�is love.
Philly, I love you. You have changed the way that I look at the world; you�ve given me hope, you�ve shown me what it�s like to really fucking live.
Tonight, Rob called me at my hotel. I was going to dinner with some colleagues. He wanted to stop by my hotel, to at least have one drink. He met me at my room (we usually meet in the bar somewhere). He lay down on my bed and asked me if I had talked to anyone in Houston this week. How fucking odd that he would ask me this. I looked at him, puzzled, and explained that Sasha seemed particularly concerned about Philly lately but that Philly hadn�t returned any of my calls, so I didn�t know what was going on.
�Phillip�s in the hospital, he�s got Pneumonia.�
It gets worse, much worse. Phillip�s HIV positive.
�What!? What!? WHAT!?� My heart sank. I buried my head in my hands and wailed. This could NOT be happening. This SO was NOT fucking true. Philly? What!? What!? What!?
Three and a half fucking years he has known. He has not told a single soul, except Sasha. He swore Sasha to secrecy and they have carried this secret between them for three and a half fucking years. Why? How? Jesus. This is just not true. This is just not happening. Please. No. Please, say it isn�t fucking true.
Rob and I sat in the hotel bar for hours, drinking and mumbling gibberish. My mind is not working, my brain is not fucking functioning properly. I think I need to puke.
