Of course the even more appalling oversight was my omitting to say that the gorgeous web site was designed by this genius. The astonishing thing is that he managed to do it without an appendix.

My brother and I had a tiff last night as we were discussing the proposal I’m writing for a second book and ways I could parlay it into other writing jobs. Then he went to dinner with his girlfriend, and I thought obsessively about our argument for three hours. They came back, and we had the following conversation:

FAUSTUS: I’m sorry I was a jerk. I realized that I’m scared I won’t be able to write this book, and I react to anything that even remotely threatens to take away any of my material with fear and anger.

FAUSTUS’S BROTHER: That’s okay. I’m sorry I was a jerk. I realized I’m upset that my move into academia has isolated me from the world of periodicals. When you seemed to dismiss my one remaining strong connection out of hand, I really overreacted.

FAUSTUS: That’s okay. I accept your apology.

FAUSTUS’S BROTHER: I accept your apology.

Pause

FAUSTUS’S BROTHER’S GIRLFRIEND: This is a conversation between two brothers who have had a lot of therapy.

FAUSTUS: You’re just saying that because you’re not tortured enough.

FAUSTUS’S BROTHER’S GIRLFRIEND: You subjected me to that excruciating exchange and you can still say that?

FAUSTUS’S BROTHER: Shut up.

First, a belated but very heartfelt thanks to him for some wonderful advice about book publicity. Again, I can offer you the idea of free sex but it’s a notion whose potential energy my boyfriend prevents from being released. But know that the thought is there.

Second, thank you to everybody who commented about how cute the picture is on the web site of the man who has never been seen in a room with me at the same time. Due to an appalling oversight on my part, I failed to note that the photos were taken by the astonishingly and effervescently brilliant Chia Messina, whose services I recommend without reservation to anybody in need of a head shot.

Third, now that I’m a published author, why haven’t all my problems gone away?

Everyone must go out immediately and buy my book, Gay Haiku, which is available as of today.

If you don’t want to pick it up from your local Barnes & Noble–or, better yet, your local independent bookstore–you can order it online from Powell’s City of Books, Barnes & Noble, or Amazon.com. (If you do choose to get it online, I’d be eternally grateful if you used these links to do so. If anybody clicks on them and then buys anything, I get a kickback.)

After yesterday’s dramatic announcement of Faustus’s coming out, I find that I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

But I will say that this man and I have never been seen in the same room together.

Get ready, folks.

Because tomorrow, my book is on shelves.

And tomorrow, Faustus, M.D. is coming out.

I’m sure by now everybody has seen PostSecret, the “ongoing community art project where people mail-in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard,” but on the off chance that you haven’t, go there immediately.

This is my latest favorite:

What must it be like to be freed of all the bonds that have held you your whole life?

What must it be like to have all the ties that have supported you severed?

What must it be like to owe this to a terrorist attack on the country?

What could motivate you not to tell anyone you were still alive?

I have followed through on my threat.

I had the “I’m not Pope Benedict XVI, but my boyfriend is” T-shirt made, and it looks fabulous, mostly because of the very generous design help of this man. I wore it yesterday, and, though not many people caught it, those who did were full of awe and admiration.

Now you can get one too, along with a mug, if you go here.

Enjoy.

Another thing that drives me crazy is when people say that Mercury is “in retrograde.”

Retrograde is an adjective, people. Mercury can be “in Capricorn” or “in Libra” but it can’t be “in retrograde.”

It just is retrograde. Or at least it was until April 12 of this year at 3:45 a.m., Eastern Standard Time.

Not that I pay any attention to that sort of thing.

It drives me crazy when people say things like, “I got all OCD about filling out that form” when what they mean is, “I was more thorough/punctilious/neat than necessary when filling out that form.” Obsessive-compulsive disorder is something quite different. When you have OCD, your mind is filled with intrusive, irrational thoughts often so forceful and terrifying as to render you incapable of concentrating on anything else, and you end up performing rituals with the intent of warding off whatever those thoughts make you afraid of. One of the most common obsessions, for example, is a fear that everything around you is contaminated. This is often paired with a compulsion to wash your hands. People in whom this compulsion is particularly strong can wash their hands until they bleed, and keep on washing. Often people with OCD have more than one obsession and/or compulsion; why just wash your hands when you can wash your hands and have to tap your doorknob with each finger of each hand when leaving or entering your apartment?

I speak, of course, from personal experience; my OCD, while not crippling, has shaped my life in any number of ways, some seriously problematic, others simply annoying. One of my more benign compulsions is displayed to most amusing effect at the water fountain at the gym, where I have to take sips in sets of four or go mad with discomfort. The ideal grouping is four sets of nine sips of water, but usually there are others waiting to drink whom I do not wish to anger, so it doesn’t often work out that way. Most of the time I end up taking four sets of five sips, which is satisfying enough to quiet the urge and yet quick enough not to draw the ire of those behind me in line. If there’s an urgent need for brevity I can take sets of three sips, but if I went down to two I’d have to take four sets of four sets of two sips, and that would be ridiculous.

I was telling E.S. about all this the other day as we waited for the subway. He was fascinated, unsurprising given that he is a psychiatrist-in-training.

“So you usually take 20 sips of water, right?” he asked.

“Yes, exactly.” I said.

“Four sets of five sips?”

“Right,” I said.

He paused. “Well, couldn’t it be five sets of four sips?”

It was the meanest thing he’d ever said to me and I almost pushed him in front of the oncoming train.

Is it wrong to want to sleep with your dog’s veterinarian?

And, if so, how wrong? Really wrong? Or just a little wrong?