Two months of constant stress have taken its toll on me mentally and physically. Everyone's favorite gay mormon, Dave (Miss Bea) is visiting so when the knock on the bedroom door came "for breakfast" I stumbled out to find it consisting of several bottles of Veuve, orange juice, and a Wire magazine in which Miss Bea was circling everyone she knew, everyone she wanted to have sex with, and was trying to connect the circles. That IS my breakfast in the foreground, but--as everyone knows--champagne with orange juice is a nutrious breakfast drink (and mixed perfectly with the Xanax I popped to sleep for the rest of the day.

Miss Bea had that devious look of someone just release from prison (in her case a business suit). I gave up my tickets to the much-lauded Sunday Beach Dance to some needy friends; my strength just isn't there. I might muster up enough energy for Latino night and have myself propped up in my box (they have a way of coming to me), but I doubt that will occur either. If I prayed, it would be for a normal week.