Outed

Monday, Apr. 5, 2004 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

My brother is no longer living with us. He finally managed to extract from his house the lying, cheating, thieving changeling that was once his best girl, and while he's trying to sell said house, he's living in it. Or he would be, if he was in town, but right now he's somewhere in the vicinity of Athens. Yeah, that's Greece, not Georgia.*

There was a day last month when my brother shuffled sleepily into the kitchen while I was packing the freshly-baked, barely-cooled cookies, brownies and soft cheesy pretzels that have made 'Zaziel a household name in discerning households. I looked up from my boxes and trays to witness a grin pasted across my bro's otherwise sleep-frowsed mug, a grin that could've been the poster child for shit-eating.

"What," said I.

"Dooty Nadog?" said he, in a tone of voice that clearly conveyed his skeptical opinion of my judgment.

Ah, hell. He found it.

I thought Jer, whose ingenuousness is part of his open-hearted charm, would be the one to inadvertently reveal to my brother the existence of this diary, but it was the Fiend, who can be downright inscrutable, who tipped him off. Although it wasn't really his fault that my brother overheard a loud argument between the Fiend and myself. Loud, not noisy. We weren't yelling at each other. We never yell. We can get very, very emphatic, but we never yell.

Oh. Um. . . except during sex.

It was an argument we've had before, the latest in a series that has lasted since Friday, Sept. 13, 2002. (One of the small advantages and the great disservice of keeping a journal is that you can calculate the precise age of your most stubborn foibles.) And the issue at the center of these arguments?

My happiness.

The Fiend wants me to be happy. How can I argue with that?

Well, I'll yell ya, it ain't easy. . .but somehow I manage.

~

* Maybe he's doing a little job of work for the upcoming Olympics. Maybe he's not. He never tells me anything about his work. He never tells anyone anything about his work, except for those rarefied individuals who Absolutely Need To Know. My brother is discretion personified in mortal flesh

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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