Not only did Brian try to send me to the gym this week wearing a handwritten sticker on my back that read, "I [heart] being a bottom," but he has taken to writing little witticisms on his rent check, such as, FOR "Rent and Sex." If I merely had to deposit these checks at the ATM, this wouldn't be a problem. But today, I had to deposit the check with a teller because I had to take care of a minor issue with my cash reserve. So I'm holding his check that says, "FOR June Rent and Good Doggie Style," and I have a 50/50 chance of getting either the old Armenian woman who barely speaks English, or the cute college boy who I flirted with mercilessly the last time I was here. As I get closer to the front of the line, praying to get the Armenian woman, College Boy looks up and smiles. Fuck. He remembers me. I'm praying and I'm praying to not get him as my teller, because as much as I joke about these things, I'm actually quite modest and I have a feeling that as bored as he is with his job, he's going to notice that unusual little notation on the check. I end up getting the Armenian woman who didn't seem to notice, but if I had gotten College Boy, I would probably have a great anecdote here about a ten-minute babble to a stranger about how I'm not a prostitute followed quickly by a mid-afternoon neurotic panic attack. Love your sense of humor, B. Love it to tiny, tiny, sharp, jagged bits.

Today, I asked my brother what he wanted to be for Halloween this year, and he said, "A gay FBI agent."

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Wat?