Out of the Closet

Dear Ms. Van Horne—Stevie: I'm kidding about the secret. I've had a little bit to drink tonight—actually more than just a little bit. By the time you get this, it won't matter what you know or who you tell. My little game will all be over.

What can I say? First, you need to know that none of this was your fault. You didn't know what was going on in my head. You busted your tail trying to cultivate me as a writer—and friend. I know I didn't show it, but your attempts at friendship did not go unnoticed—including the free lunches. Thanks.

Second, since you were square with me, you deserve to know what's going on. If you want to tell anybody, that's your business, I don't care. I just don't care about anything anymore.

So how do I say what I want to say? I guess I just say it. I'm going to blow myself to kingdom come tonight because I'm a scared little gay boy who can't come out of the closet.

(To Be Continued)