It has been three months since Gay Hockey Show premiered. I sit in quietude, refusing to take on the insipid celebration of a candy-coated forbidden romance. My life is a gay tragedy, and I don't need the reminder that others have joy I don't.

There is a dull sizzling in my ears all the time, almost like I'm listening to sprinklers mist a lawn over my shoulders. It's not a ring, not shrill, not even that discomfiting. Tilting my head rebalances the sizzle, and pulls invisible strings which connect muscles that shouldn't be.

In the past three years, I have done every possible kind of lying flat. Indeed, it is a small wonder that I have cycled all the way to lying flat peacefully despite the things I put myself and others through. I have also, notably, not earned an income in these past three years. Remember what I said about privilege?

Is there merit to giving up on yourself in your thirties? I'd like to pretend that there is.