On the seventh day God provided His children a glorious sunshine and called unto them to celebrate with Him, and His children heeded His call. In the streets they sang and danced and ate and drank, and they made busy themselves with the merriment of the gifts with which He had showered them. They celebrated their Pride and their Love for one another.

And God was happy for them.

And He made tiny pink stickers for all His children to place upon their sweat-drenched bodies as they reveled in the Glory of His sunshine. "God Made Me Gay," the stickers proclaimed. And God smiled, for He had indeed made them the way He intended.

And God was happy because of them.

And He made them flags with all the colours of the rainbow, and blessed them with cool breezes that flew the banners high into His sky. And His children, they were all happy, and they made a joyful noise.

And God was happy with them.

But there was a little man who walked among His children. The little man was full of hate. The little man carried an anger in his heart that blinded him to the wondrous beauty of His world. He carried signs fashioned of paper and plastic, and upon them was written a message of Hatred. And the little man carried a bullhorn into which he preached a message of Intolerance and Bigotry. And the little man claimed to be God's messenger.

And God was sad.

He was sad for the little man, for He looked into his heart and saw that it was full of Fear. So God sent three of His beautiful Angels dressed as men and blessed with the gifts of Tolerance, Acceptance and Understanding. The three Angels tried to reason with him and rid him of his Fear, but the little man was too full of anger to see the gifts presented him, and he cast them aside.

And that filled God with more sadness.

And God looked deeper into the little man's heart and saw that it was full of Loneliness. So He sent along a beautiful float full of Angels singing and dancing and playing musical instruments, and their wingtips touched as they frolicked in the sun. But the little man did not see the beautiful colours and did not hear the magnificent voices that rang out over his little bullhorn. And the little man rejected the second gift and again turned away.

And that filled God with more sadness.

And God looked deeper into the little man's heart and saw that it was steeped in Hate and Despair and Misery and Loathing.

And the little man raised his bullhorn and said, "Everyone hates you." So God sent a group of parents and friends who supported His gay children to show the little man that there is Love.

And the little man said, "You will always be alone." So He sent a group of babies and children carried on the backs of their gay mothers and fathers to show him that there is Family.

And the little man said, "You will never be happy." So God sent a group of students who waved flags and laughed to show that there is Joy.

And the little man said, "You will all die." So God sent a group of elderly gay men and women on a bus. And suddenly God was filled with a great happiness, for the little angry man had finally voiced the one certainty in life, the one certainty that life will eventually end, the one certainty that all men and women will inevitably face. And God wished in all His heart that the little man would understand that life was meant to be lived, that life was meant to be celebrated.

And then the little man said, "God hates all of you."

So God replied, "Fuck off, asshole," and sent the cops to take the little man away.

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Have you ever felt paranoid?

Have you ever felt as though the world were against you, the upper echelons of those who comprise the collective "them" beating down upon you as you run helter skelter for the hills? Have you ever felt angry and helpless and hopeless and all at once confused at just how fucked up the world around you is?

When shit hits the fan, someone told me yesterday, everyone runs for the hills.

Have you ever held your breath? Have you ever bitten your lip and clenched your fists and held your tongue so tight that not a word could escape? Have you ever held your breath so long you turned blue in the face, your lip bleeding angry red blood and your hands balled tight into tiny white knots?

Sometimes when it rains, it pours. Fuck, it pours.

I got up and left my desk this morning at 10:45, unable to coerce myself into being productive. "I'll be back in a bit," I said. "Just have a few errands to run."

I didn't know where I was going when I left, my brain was so fuddled. I plugged myself into my iPod and headed out into the sweltering New York heat, music blaring into my head and my face red with fury. You could have popped me with a pin, I was so red. I headed two blocks down to St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Soon enough, I found myself sitting in the tiny chapel at the back of the altar, voices around me disappearing into the cavernous ceilings and the Virgin Mary staring down inquisitively at me. My child, she seemed to say, how can I help you today? How can I lift the angry black lines etched deep into your forehead, quell the tears of rage threatening to stream down your cheeks? I leaned back and closed my eyes, and slept fitfully for an hour.

Do you believe in conspiracy theories?

Do you have that nagging feeling that your mind is playing tricks on you? Do you believe that everyone is on the other team and that maybe, just maybe they're all out to get you somewhere somehow someday?

After my nap, I left the cathedral and headed to Rockefeller Center for lunch. Lamb and peas and carrots and mashed potatoes. And a gigantic cookie with everything in it: dark chocolate chips, white chocolate chips, raisins, cranberries. If the universe is against you, you might as well eat whatever the hell you want. I sat at a table and stared at my meal.

A couple hovered nervously for a minute before the man approached my table. "Can I, would you mind?" he asked, almost apologetically, pointing at the three empty seats nearby. I nodded. "Thank you," he said. He motioned his wife and little daughter to sit down.

Tourists, tourists everywhere. My tablemates were tourists. The man had a video camera, the woman had a still camera. The girl, she had her smiles. I ate my meal and left. The three of them, they stayed behind, eating their single falafel and taking pictures of god knows what.

When I got back to the office some three hours later, no one said a word. Did anyone miss me? No messages, no strange looks, no nothing. I took a deep breath, tossed the giant cookie into a trashcan, and sat myself down.

It's just a job, I reminded myself. It's just a fucking job.

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He followed me yesterday. He followed me home like a little puppy.

I first noticed him on the subway platform at 42nd Street sneaking quiet stares as I drowned the world out with angry music and a Time magazine explaining why Harry Potter rules. We boarded the express 7 train to Flushing together, battling the end-of-day remains of the Wednesday rush hour crowd. Somehow he managed to find a seat, and carefully sat himself down facing me, five or six feet away.

I returned his stare.

Just as quickly as I glanced at him, he looked away, twiddling his thumbs nervously and staring out the window at the dark tunnel walls rushing by. I wasn't looking at you, really I wasn't. I turned back to my magazine, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him looking at me again.

We played the stare-at-me-look-away game for a few minutes, the train stopping at the various stations and people swarming in and out of the car. Then, just as the train left the Queensboro Plaza stop, I looked at him again, and he kept his gaze for a moment, smiling a faint smile before turning away. I wasn't smiling at you, really I wasn't.

He was shorter than me, maybe five-seven, with beautiful, sad puppy dog eyes and a shy, uncertain smile that made you want to just get up and hug him.

Soon, the train reached its final destination, and I disembarked, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he raced to catch up to me.

"Oh, hello?" he said, tentatively.

"Hi. How are you?"

We exchanged a few pleasantries as we exited the station, emerging into the fading evening light and the crowded streets above.

His name was Freddie. Freddie from Colombia. Freddie was 23 and delightfully shy. He lived with his parents and two younger siblings, and came to America when he was sixteen. Freddie thought I had a nice smile.

"I can't give you my phone number because I live with my parents," he explained. "But you?"

"Oh, I don't live alone."

"Oh, a boyfriend? That's okay."

"And you, do you have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, well, a date."

Freddie's boyfriend was from Puerto Rico. I wasn't really sure what he meant by a date, but I didn't ask. His folks knew that he was gay, and they were okay with it, he said. He was happy.

"You are not afraid of me, are you?" he said, suddenly looking embarrassed. "We are not dangerous people. I am not a dangerous person."

"No, I am not afraid." I laughed as I thought of the timid boy with puppy dog eyes as being dangerous. "Are you afraid of me?"

"I followed you here..." He pointed to the train station behind us. "I followed you here because you look very nice. You don't look dangerous at all to me."

I laughed nervously. I never really know how to react when someone tells me that I look nice. "Why thank you. You look very nice, too," I said. It was true. Freddie was adorable. Very adorable. Very much like a little puppy you want to grab and hug and kiss all over. I smiled.

"Okay, I will leave you when we reach the end of the street," he said, pointing to the street sign fifteen yards away. "I will go home then."

"Where do you live?" I asked.

Freddie lived on 82nd Street, which meant he had to take the train back a few stations. We chatted a bit more as we walked to the appointed spot. Then he stopped abruptly and turned to me.

"Well," he said, "I will go now. I will go home now." He looked at me. "It was very nice to meet you."

"It was nice meeting you, too, Freddie. Perhaps we will meet again one day."

He looked to the sky and shrugged, the palms of his hands facing me. "I don't know," he said. "This is a big place." He smiled. "But I hope so."

Then he turned around and headed back towards the train station.

And just like that, he was gone. Freddie, the cute puppy dog who followed me home, was gone.

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My cousin, Evelyn, is visiting for a few days from Germany with her girlfriend, Rosmarie, from Switzerland. We took them up to the Vermont wilderness over the weekend, stopping in at the very much appreciated lesbian Northampton for lunch and a lazy midday stroll about the town.

It's always very fascinating to see how foreigners react to non-tourist life in America. Great, wonderful America: big lights, big cities, hustle and bustle and more. Sometimes I wonder how their perceptions of America have been influenced by what they see on tv, what they read in the newspapers, what they hear from others. Sometimes I wonder what it is exactly they expect from us. Sometimes I wonder what it is they think of us.

Then sometimes, just sometimes, like on Saturday night as we sat watching the full moon rise over the mountaintops and over the dying embers of a beachside campfire, I remember that that's exactly what I am. I remember that I, too, am just a foreigner spending a little time here in a borrowed land.

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Hold on tight. Here it comes: another Monday.

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My mother doesn't quite pronounce the last "g" in Greg's name. She calls him "Grey." "Is Grey coming for dinner tonight?" she would ask. "Is Grey home from work yet?" I find it amusing and it tickles me so to hear her say his name, not only because of her pronunciation, but also because she doesn't say his name much. She simply doesn't talk much about him. Not that she doesn't like him, mind you. She adores him. It's just that my mother's not one to show or talk about emotion. And with Greg, there's of course the whole gay thing and her still coming to terms with it.

Today at work was excruciatingly stressful. More stressful so than most other days, and then some. Impossible deadlines, long hours and a very deflating meeting with my boss that raised the hackles at the back of my neck and flooded my veins with adrenaline. I was scheduled to run the 3.5-mile JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge in Central Park today, but with the steady rains falling from overcast skies all afternoon, it was just as well that I had too much work to do anyway.

Work, work, work. Stress, stress, stress. That's Corporate America, I suppose.

I took a car home from work after ten o'clock tonight, emotionally drained and physically spent. On the way home, I called my mother in San Francisco, returning her call from earlier today. She's there for a few weeks visiting my brother, Peter. We chatted about nothing in particular: about the Indian food I had for dinner and how her back was still hurting and how the rain was falling and falling and falling in New York. I didn't tell her how tough it was at work today. I didn't want her to worry needlessly. And as the conversation drew to a close, we said our goodbyes.

"Okay, take care. And call me again when you get time, okay?" she said.

"Yes, okay. And enjoy San Francisco."

"Bye-bye."

"Bye."

"Oh," she said.

"Oh?"

"And say hello to Grey for me." She paused tentatively. "Tell Grey I say hello."

I smiled as I hung up the phone. Sometimes mothers know just how to make a tough day so much better.

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