My first time with a straight boy didn't go the way I planned.
Wow, I need to revise that statement.
BOONE: Dude, I'm not quitting smoking.
ME: Can I at least get you to quit saying 'dude?'
Boone seemed to be stagnant. Lots of plans, lots of ideas, no outlets, and one big obstacle.
ME: All you do is get stoned.
BOONE: Is this a problem?
ME: What is it you want to do with your life, Boone?
BOONE: I like writing.
One of my fellow kinsmen?
Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all.
ME: How often do you write?
ME: That's like saying 'I'm a painter. I just haven't painted anything yet.'
BOONE: I've been busy!
Busy? We were in his apartment. The Hangover was on the television. There was a cricket playing a violin somewhere.
ME: Busy doing what?
BOONE: Enjoying myself.
ME: How often do you smoke a day?
ME: More often than you write, right?
BOONE: Write right?
I grabbed his arm, got him off his couch, and put him down at this desk.
ME: When you're done writing, you can smoke.
BOONE: How much do I have to write?
ME: Let's say ten pages.
BOONE: About what?
ME: I don't care. As long as it's something.
BOONE: Can I write about smoking.
ME: If that's what it takes.
I left him there with his thoughts.
Okay, maybe that's not the best idea--
But it's a start.