Doctor Tells Me I Have HIV


Doctor Tells Me I Have HIV

Some of you are expecting a joke here.  Like HIV stands for “Hilarious Internet Vegetarian” or something stupid like that.  No, this time there’s no joke.  Last week at a Kaiser in West Covina, I was told that I have HIV.

It’s not easy for me to put this into words, and it all happened so fast.  Just over a week ago, things were going better than ever.  I was finally back home after weeks on the…

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First people think he’s retired then he’s told by a medical professional that he’s got HIV. Hard out here for a funnyman.

The Regan blood remains strong: my dad scored Atlanta Yelp Review of the Day. Scored it despite including the phrase “I hate babies and children in general.” He also wrote “[fuck] ‘em” about a type of patron.

Nice, Yelp mods actually know what diners care about.

Not trying to put him on blast, I suspect Zach Dionne co-opted this phrase after seeing my own use and it’s cool that I’ve affected anything ever


I spent all last night and all today dwelling on this and it’s time. I tried to write a long essay (okay, longer) about it but it felt too navel-gazey and I didn’t know when I would finish it, and seeing as it was the last thing holding me back, I’m just gonna keep it for myself and do this instead.

I’m going on an internet communication hiatus. I cut all my other vices out of my life and this one just ballooned to fill the void. I never aimlessly browse Facebook, but I check it once every four minutes to make sure I’m not missing a conversation that simply demands my input. I write on so many posts that I get a constant stream of notifications, bare minimum fifty a day. And all for the purpose of being first on the scene, first to get my word in. I do believe I’m practicing writing, but I’m not feeding my brain nearly enough to make it valuable. I’m starting to regurgitate for the sake of eating my own vomit (nice, nailed it). There’s other ways to practice that don’t demand obsession.

On top of that, I’m sick of the voices online. It’s been 16 years. I’ve heard it all. There are plenty of interesting people who wrote, like, books n’ shit, and I could be reading those rather than symmetrically screaming at the -7 year olds on tumblr & public fb groups. (You read that right, they are negative seven years old. That’s the maturity level.) I’d rather synthesize some real, cool thoughts with my own oddball beliefs over bashing my skull into a brick wall over and over, howling “I’m doin’ it dad, i’m really doin’ it” and ignoring the death masque my shredded face takes on.

There’s a lot more to it than just that, but the point is, I’m gonna exhibit internet self-control for the first time since I was staying up til 2am to yell at fuckers on GameFAQs about whether Marle or Lucca was hotter. Yes, I am just getting around to correcting behavior from when I was ten years old, behavior that was just as fucked then as it is now. I’ve been faintly aware (namely because I use the internet to an insane degree compared to everyone around me) that it needed to be addressed. It didn’t seem possible because I grew up in the internet, and considering leaving was like thinking “what, explore space? without the Earth I’ll just float in nothingness and the oxygen will be gone, I’m gonna stay on the ground and chill. forever”

I’m gonna try to avoid consuming content on tumblr and twitter, but you may still see me post for my own sake about the shit I like because I don’t see much of a purpose in writing if people can’t read it, and I’m def still gonna be writing. No reblog conversations though. Never again. Alternately, I will read Facebook, and it has to stay operational for the sake of my job plus bitchin party invites, but I won’t be commenting or posting anything, including chat messages. E-mail and phone and Skype are great; now that I’ve sobered up, the idea of talking to people isn’t as much of a chore (the act of it never was, but damn do I have little faith in my social performance.) If you want more details about my recent life like why I fled the Westfield mall choking back tears on Memorial Day or how my body has gone from requiring eleven hours of sleep a night to insisting I only get four, feel free to holler at your boy. (I am nobody’s boy but my father’s.) And I’m sorry to anyone who feels like I haven’t been present for their lives, trust that it wasn’t a choice. Or it was a choice, on my part, for fear, which might as well not be a choice. Also I’ve apparently made the choice to make no sense.

I don’t know how long I’ll be doing this for, but a goal isn’t necessary. I feel calmer already. Besides, I’ve got something else to care about right now:


Please meet Ponce. He’s named after a cat in a screenplay I wrote, a cat that the main characters had to get back home to at any cost. Didn’t expect to meet the role’s eventual actor in my back alley. This Ponce was recently abandoned by one of my neighbors and is so dumb & sweet & fucking adorably moronic & fat, very very fat, that the real world would have certainly killed him. I can identify with 3/4ths of that. I think he’s a boy, I don’t know too many details about him, I literally Pied Piper’d him into my apartment three hours ago. He’s the closest thing to a serendipitous nature spirit that I’ve ever met and we’re both very lucky to meet each other right now. He’s making happy paws in my lap as I type. Look at the two of us charmers with our smiles.

Anyway. Here goes nothing. (Literally.)

See you later, space cowb— [I stumble on the curb and put my right foot out to keep me from falling but the added pressure of my step opens a pothole into an ancient Mayan sinkhole filled with vipers and I fall in and the vipers start biting me lots but you, watching all this, kinda crack a smile and my swelling face contorts into something supposedly similar] —oy

PS Even though I doubt he’ll read this because that’s sort of the point, special thanks to Ethan, who has always supported my writing to an exemplary degree and, with that in mind, has likely never read this tumblr or, for that matter, anything I post online and has always insisted to my face that “blogging doesn’t mean shit.” Dude’s a sage.

It’s very nice to know that there are still things in this world that, if they even can be explained, aren’t worth explaining.

I was acutely aware of the significance but didn’t say anything publicly on the anniversary of his death. I can’t resist. For all of its chintzy pointlessness: I miss you Mitt, and all this talk about guns haunts me for the lack of your smile.