but then again, too few to mention

I like to think of myself as a modern day James Dean. Despite the striking physical resemblance I think I truly embody his "Live fast, die young," tragically machismo, sexually ambiguous spirit.

I have been told that I elicit a physical response. People of both sexes have said that they begin to salivate uncotrollably when I walk in a room. As flattering as it is, it can get to be too much. I was born this way. The world is always hanging onto my leg like a sobbing child. I just have to shake it off.

I'm on an endless hike up, trying to reach that unattainable summit of enlightenment. I don't have time for hangers on and lookie-loos. They all want a piece of me and I can't afford to give anymore of myself away.

Can I get you a Diet Pepsi? No? Well, let me know.

Last night, smoking a post coital cigarette with another fashionista, this all came together for me.

She turned to me and said, "Jeremy? Why don't you come back to Italy with me?"

I looked her right in the eyes and said, "Because I don't love you."

She slapped me smartly across the face and screamed at me, calling me a fucking bastard, etc. Thick mascara running down her cheeks.

"Listen," I said, grabbing her face with both hands, "I didn't promise you anything. You knew what you were getting into when you got involved with me."

I held her for hours as her crying took its course, watching the rain come down.

I've been told that I'm hard to get close to: veils and walls and smoke and mirrors. People long to see the workings of my heart, to study the filament that makes it glow so brightly. The journey to my heart is a dangerous trek. Trap doors and jack-in-the-boxes around every corner. But, I promise you, if you're patient and stay late enough into the night you'll find it shining for you, so bright that you think you'll go blind.