Monte

It’s almost two in the morning, and from the next room I hear the soft breathing—and occasional snoring—of my sweetheart.

So we’re on the bed fooling around, and he’s just about to slip on a condom when I notice the camera on the wall.

Then we’ll talk about our families and pets. I explain I’m allergic to both cats and dogs, and they tell me all about their little shitsu named Sadie.

After 20 minutes of silence, through tears, he told me he was HIV positive and had been so for the past seven years.

From the window I could see the flicker of gunfire on the first floor of the Neiman Marcus. I stepped back so terrified that I began to cry.

Hallmark should come out with a card that says, ‘Happy Valentines. I got you HIV this year.’

When people ask me, I tell them it was because we were on different pages and wanted different things and had different personalities. But I don’t really know what any of that means. I guess they sounded like good reasons at the time, but now I’m just confused.

I’m becoming a regular Bob Vila. The many weekends I’ve spent laboring away have been rewarding and time well invested in both my apartment and personal well being. Working with my hands has made me more confident in my ability to take care of myself, and I’m learning that I’m actually more handy than I ever gave myself credit for.

I learned a lot from my previous relationship—both about myself and the things that are important to me—things that I had lost touch of somewhere along the way.

Help. I’m being held captive in my own apartment building. I went downstairs to the “mezzanine” to get my car, and low and behold, the garage gate wasn’t opening. The guy in front of me (with a very sexy british accent), suggested I try my remote, but it didn’t work. So I offered to walk across the street to the Mercantile building (which owns my building) and ask them for assistance.