rejoice o young man in thy youth

Yesterday, I walked past the 92nd Street Y and outside engraved on the building is the phrase, "Rejoice O Young Man In Thy Youth." The phrase struck me as too appropriate, too perfect, for my life as of late, that perhaps I might even be doing a little too much rejoicing in my youth. But to do so, to rejoice in this thing and be alive and with peers and out and about amongst people is such a thrilling thing, so thrilling that any alternatives seem boring in comparison. I got stoned in the morning and went up to the Bronx Zoo with Brian and Gabriel. There were amazing animals there and the effect of the warm weather upon my mood was amazing, and fantasies about what a summer might hold were never too far beneath the surface of my thoughts. Then because the idea of coming home, of domesticity and its perceived tedium (perceived when fun and social activity is wanted), seemed terrible, we went to this bizarre fashion show of people wearing chef jackets. There was free champagne and cheese, and the free booze only intensified my desire for fun, as well as that of Gabriel's, and after the fashion show, we wandered around Chelsea, looking for someone to invite us up to their apartment for drinks. We found one such guy. He lived on the 34th floor of this building. The three of us split two bottles of wine, listened to bad music, and talked about sex, which led to a desire for it on the part of our host. Because I wouldn't have sex with just him alone, because I wanted a threesome, we were politely kicked out. Then Mr. Black's and the Cock. There were boys there, some of whom I really wanted to sleep with, some of whom I have slept with. And the night ended with a strawberry-banana drink. And I am so happy with my body and its physical presence in this often thrilling world.