I’ve been feeling really moody and ponderous this weekend.

I’ve recently decided to give up chat rooms, and as a result, there’s a void. I’m bored. I’m seeing just how much I’ve used chat rooms to relieve the loneliness. And I’m hoping that the short-term pain will result in some long-term gain. At least I’ve joined the chorus — and although we haven’t even had the first rehearsal yet, I’ve already been invited to a party the following weekend.

Last night I stood in a crowded, noisy, dimly-lit place and drank a liquid that dulled my senses. This is what passes for entertainment in the gay community? Why go to bars? What’s the point? I walked down Eighth Avenue and everyone looked the same, and it made me feel mad and scornful and inadequate. I walked into G, but it was so crowded I thought I was going to throw up, so I walked out. I went to Barracuda instead. I bought a Corona and stood/sat in different parts of the bar for an hour and a half. Oh, it was thrilling.

It’s absurd.

As I walked out of Barracuda to head home, I picked up a copy of Next magazine for some fluffy PATH train reading. Rufus Wainwright was on the cover. I read the article, and I simultaneously fell in love with him and desired to be him.

“14th Street” — I love this song because it’s the triumphant return, where I’m coming back home, and the unattained lovers who fucked me over in the first half are forgiven and idealized and then put on a shelf as relics.

I downloaded a bunch of his songs about a year ago, and he’s so brilliant and beautiful and original. He makes me want to cry.

I want to be like that. I want to turn pain into beautiful, original art, and have unknown people admire me for it and think I’m wonderful because I’ve confronted and slain my inner demons and grown into a beautiful human being because of it.

I want to meet a guy who’s not afraid of his emotions.

The problem is, whenever I do, I become afraid of my own.