Me2: Epilogue 2

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 

He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 

An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 

(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)

Epilogue 2

Me

Sitting in my apartment – surrounded by the things I'd been told to buy, showed how to assemble, and promised what to expect to happen when it was all done to specifications – I tried to ponder what to do next.

It didn't help that I could too easily see another me – surrounded by the things he'd been told to buy, showed how to assemble, and promised what to expect to happen when it was all done to specifications – sitting in his apartment, also pondering what to do next.

How do you think ... not like yourself?  If I'd been right – that is, if the me that had explained it all to me had been right – then we all were slightly different, a tweak here, a twink there, but only slightly: fed the same top ten books, the top ten shows, the top ten music, the top ten restaurants, told what to love, what to hate, what to want to be, what not to be, there was too good a chance that I was walled in by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life; blinded by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life to anything but what I knew.

I'd like to say that it came like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity.  It didn't.  It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was a process, one thing after another that lead from nothing to the answer.

The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I listed what I was.

It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.

It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done.  I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me2

How do you think ... not like yourself?  If I'd been right – that is, if the me that had explained it all to me had been right – then we all were slightly different, a tweak here, a twink there, but only slightly: fed the same top ten books, the top ten shows, the top ten music, the top ten restaurants, told what to love, what to hate, what to want to be, what not to be, there was too good a chance that I was walled in by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life; blinded by my carefully purchased, precisely assembled life to anything but what I knew.

I'd like to say that it came like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity.  It didn't.  It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was a process, one thing after another that lead from nothing to the answer.

The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I listed what I was.

It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.

It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me3

I'd like to say that it came like a flash, a bolt, a surge, a spike of brain electricity.  It didn't.  It was bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but it was a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.

The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick – more and more, I listed what I was.

It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.

It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there, all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me4

The first was reflection, looking not into a mirror but downward and to the right – or wherever my copied soul lived.  What was the essence of myself?  I worked, I partied, I purchased, I drank, I fucked, I talked, I drove, I ate, I slept, I pissed and shitted, I showered and shaved, I flirted, I cried, I got angry, I got hungry, I got sleepy, I was late, I was early, I was on time, I was old enough to know better, I was too young to care, I was healthy, I got sick-more and more, I listed what I was.

It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.

It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me5

It took a bit of time, but I found something interesting.  It was like a hole, a part of me – us – that was there in its absence.  You see all the numbers, but because you want them to be in order and complete, you don't see the four missing between the three and the five.

It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there, all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me6

It all came in.  Nothing came out: I used, I didn't make.  That was one part, the next was what to make.

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me7

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me8

Not a flash, not a bolt, not a surge, not a spike of brain electricity.  Bright, brilliant, luminous, and jolting, but still a process, one thing after another that led from nothing to the answer.  I liked music, but I couldn't play an instrument.  I liked to sing, but only in the shower.  I liked taking pictures, but really wasn't any good at it.  I liked movies, but didn't have a clue how to make them.  I liked clothes, but couldn't sew.  I liked pots, but ceramics seemed too dirty.  I liked food, but burned everything I tried to cook.

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to all of us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me9

(Unavailable, but if he weren't this is what he'd have said)

So I sat down at my computer.  The answer was there, all along: I could do what no other me had done, I could tell the world what had happened to us.  I could stand out.  I could be the only me there was.

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me10

So I started to write.

* * * *

Me11

So I started to...

Me2: Epilogue 1

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 

He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 

An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 

(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)

Epilogue 1

Me

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair. 

* * * *

Me2

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

* * * *

Me3

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

* * * *

Me4

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

* * * *

Me5

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

It made sense.  It explained what happened.  I'd just seen someone who looked like me, someone who'd modeled his life in the same way.  At work I'd been mistaken for someone who looked like me, someone who'd modeled his life in the same way: a me that Ebony had mistaken me for, a me who for some reason was a slightly better worker than I'd been.  At the community center, the dyke had done the same, mistaking me for ame who was slightly more caring and willing to volunteer than I'd been.  He hadn't been a doppelganger, he hadn't been an evil self; he'd just been a person who had chosen to be a type like myself.

* * * *

Me6

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

It made sense.  It explained what happened.  We live in cookie-cutter apartments on cookie-cutter blocks, furnished with mass-produced furniture, assembled to look like rooms from mass-produced magazines or cookie-cutter TV shows.  They look alike, so much alike that I'd mistaken his place for mine, and cleaned up.  Of course the key hadn't worked.  Of course the super let me in; he wouldn't have been able to tell him from me or me from him.  He hadn't been an evil self, he hadn't been a me from a parallel reality, he'd just lived in an apartment just like mine, because we'd both chosen to be the same type of person.

And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.

* * * *

Me7

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

It made sense.  It explained what happened.  The man who'd called, who suggested I might have a good time – a misdialed phone, the mistaking of one name for another, the mistaking of one face for another.  All looking alike.  All acting alike – or mostly acting alike.  He hadn't been a me from a parallel reality, he hadn't been a me from the future; he'd just been a person who had chosen to be a type like myself.

And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.

* * * *

Me8

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

It made sense.  It explained what happened.  It hadn't been someone from a loop in time, it hadn't been an incubus wearing my face.  He'd just been a social image who'd been looking for what I'd been looking for: ourselves reflected back at ourselves, a fleshly and bloody copy.

And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.

* * * *

Me9

(Unavailable, but if he weren't this is what he'd have said)

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.

The same, down to clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself, who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn't want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

It made sense.  It explained what happened.  He hadn’t been a demon, he hadn’t been a long-lost twin.  The man who’d killed me had just been someone who looked like me, who’d shopped at the same place, for the same look, to create the same kind of life.

And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.

* * * *

Me10

I saw them in the Starbucks.  Me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to the clothes they wore, the styles of their hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right and one was sitting on the left.

Then there were three, sitting together in the Starbucks.  I know that’s redundant, but that’s the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself, who came in and sat down at the same table.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

They told me then, about what was happening.  At first I didn’t want to understand what they were saying.  But then my brain went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

It made sense.  It explained what happened.  He hadn't been a long-lost twin, he hadn't been an identity thief.  The man I'd killed – and the man who'd been arrested for the crime – had just been someone who looked like me, who'd shopped at the same place, for the same look, to create the same kind of life.

And perhaps somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself, a Tommy Hilfiger who used to be a Boy of Summer, was sitting down at that same moment to hear from other Tommy Hilfigers who used to be Boys of Summer that what had happened to him was very much like what had happened to them.

* * * *

Me11

We sat in a Starbucks.  Me and me and me, sitting together.  The same, down to clothes we wore, the styles of our hair.  There were differences, but only because one was sitting on the right, one was sitting on the left, and I was sitting in the middle.

The three of us: sitting in a Starbucks.  I know that's redundant, but that's the way things have been lately.  One sitting on the right, one sitting on the left, and the me that was myself.  Differences, naturally, but only because there was one sitting on the right, one on the left, and one in the middle.

I knew what was happening to them.  Like all of them, I hadn't wanted to understand.  But then our brains went from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

There was no escaping it: it made sense.  It explained what happened.

Just as there was no escaping that somewhere else in the city, in the state, in the region, in the country, in the world, another version of myself was sitting down at that same moment to hear the same kind of story from the same kind of person.  Put some of them together and they make one book, put others together and you get a different book.  It was all a matter of perspective.

One thing I couldn't see from my new viewpoint was where it would go from here–

Me2: Chapter 11

As part of a huge - and much needed - marketing push, I'm going to be serializing a few of my all-time favorite books ... starting with the (ahem) rather infamous novel that I may or may not have actually written: Me2

"Absolutely brilliant!" says Lisabet Sarai, author of Incognito and Fire, about Lambda finalist M.Christian's controversial manlove horror/thriller. 

He looks just like you. He acts exactly like you. He takes away your job. He steals your friends. He seduces your male lover. None of them can tell the difference. Every day he becomes more and more like you, pushing you out of your own life, taking away what was yours … until there’s nothing left. Where did he come from? Robot? Alien? Clone? Doppelganger? Evil twin? Long lost brother? Then you discover there are still more "yous." Can you be sure you are the real you? And how do you fight to take your own life back? 

An absorbing new approach to the question of identity, Me2 is a groundbreaking gay chiller you’ll remember for a long time – no matter who you are, or who you think you may be. 

(Despite rumors that this book was written by an impostor - but, rest assured, this is the real 'M.Christian.' Accept no substitutes!)

Chapter XI
Me11

"You've heard it a lot.  Hell, I know you've heard it a lot.  But I mean it, you to me – honestly, truthfully – I know what you're feeling, the shit you've been going through.

"There's a lot of things going on.  Real things.  It's not just in your mind, not just in the space between your ears.  It's not just you.

"That's the problem, too.  But at least you aren't alone.  So you can relax, if you can.

"I'm so glad you came in.  I've tried to track down a few others like us, but when I got close, they got pretty freaked out.  A few even got punchy.  Can't really blame them, I guess.  Some of them are pretty ... busted up.  So that's why I stopped looking, let them come to me.  Like you have.  So glad you're handling it ... as well as you are.  You seem to be one of the better ones.

"Have you figured it out yet?  No?  I'm not surprised.  A few of us have had bits of it – a part here and there – but none of us have had all of it.  Don't know why I did.  Luck, maybe.  Could be I've had more time to think.  I don't know.

"We're all the same.  That's what it's all about.  That's what's going on: none of us are unique.  No one is.  We've all become types, we wear nothing but costumes, we act only like we're supposed to act –and we like it that way.  We've made ourselves into what we want to be, how we want to be seen.  It doesn't matter what that is: rich, poor, stupid, smart, beautiful.  It doesn't even matter how we start either – no parents, one parent, both parents, whatever – because no matter how we grow up, we all want to be the same as everyone else when we do.

"It's always been kind of like this, but it's different now.  Worse, I think.  Things used to travel slowly.  But now it just rushes at you, doesn't it?  TV, the Internet, magazines, books.  Life – all of it.  Sometimes you feels like it's too much, right?  It's too loud, too crazy, too angry.  So you try to find ways not to feel tense, outside, alone: you listen to the top ten, watch the top ten, think the top ten are sexy, want to look like the top ten, want to become the top ten, because everyone else does.  It's safe.  It feels good to know what you're doing is what everyone else is doing.

"There's something else, too: the TV, the Internet, the magazines, the books are all made to get to the most people, right?  That's the way it works, isn't it?  They're successful when they get the most number of people to read the same thing, watch the same thing, think the same thing, become the same thing – and they keep getting better and better at it.  Something's a hit because it was made to be a hit – and we make it a hit because if we don't watch it, listen to it, be like it then we won't be like everyone else.

"Think about it.  We want to be wanted, so we buy what they're selling, so we become what everyone wants: a predictable model, a type, a unit.  Everyone's the same – and that way we not only know what we are, but everyone else knows what we are, too.  Then to stay that way, we buy what we're supposed to buy and live the way our types are supposed to live.  It goes round and around and around and around!

"Have you listened to your thoughts?  Really listened?  Close your eyes and pay attention: they aren't yours, are they?  They're stuff from movies, from TV, from all over the place.  They aren't yours because you're just what you've read or watched or seen.  You're just bits and pieces of stuff.  Stuff that other people are thinking about too, people who want to be the same kind of person you are.

"Even people who don't think they're not the same are the same, I mean.  They think they're special but they're not.  They're types too – just different types.  They think they're beyond all this shit but they're not – they've all read the same books, seen the same flicks, listened to the same music.  They all want to be accepted, but accepted by people like them, so they wear their costumes and put on their act.  Just like us.  Just like all of us.

"Maybe we're ... better at all this, being 'types' I mean.  Maybe we're so outside of it, being queer and all, that we just want it more.  You know: to be part of something we get and that gets us.  So we make ourselves into special shapes and shit and lives to do that.  Some of us talk a certain way, walk a certain way, create lives that are just like our type so we don't have to be different.  More different, I mean.

"No shit that some of us – some of 'me' you could say – 'broke'.  You could see why it happened, when you figure it all out.  Others, like you, have handled it okay.  That we have become a standard model of a person, I mean.  I'm just glad you saw me and came in, so we could talk.

"Others ... like me, too, I guess.  How many like me are there?  Sitting down and talking to others like you.  Explaining about it all?  Telling the story?  I don't know how many others – but there's more than one.  That's the point, I guess: that there's always more than one."

Sitting in Starbucks, listening to him.  Listening to me.  The other me.  A path in his talking, a winding road through my head, going from refusal to belief, from belief to fury, fury to wanting to work things out, wanting to work things out to deep darkness, and then finally from deep darkness to understanding.

We sipped our caramel macchiatos together, one side of the mirror facing the other.  Maybe one set of eyes a bit more frantic, the other set of eyes more exhausted.  Otherwise the same man here, the same man there: Tommy Hilfiger facing Tommy Hilfiger in a Starbucks that could be any Starbucks.  The hair was the same, styled and modeled and clipped in imitation of the same look seen in the same magazine, on the same model who was chosen to appeal to the greatest number of men.

What was he thinking?  I could almost hear the words in my head – but only almost.  The tone of voice was there, but the details were slippery, sliding from getting caught and nailed down.  He'd figured it out, after all.  I hadn't.  He was me, but a me that was farther along the road, waving back to my slower pace.  I might be able to think like he did, given enough time.

I thought about him.  I thought about me.  I thought about other ... hims and mes and Is and theys and uses.  One end of the road marked by a sideways, out-of-the-other-corner-of-the-eye, "Weren't you just here?" the first sign that something-may-not-be-right, that there might be someone out there who looks like me, acts like me, and who wants to steal what's mine.

The other end was this me, who had seen it all, pondered and thought, deduced, and then tried to tell others what he'd pondered, what he'd thought, what he'd deduced.

My coffee was warm in my hand, so I sipped at it.  Across the table, my coffee was warm in my hand, so I sipped it.  A delay, perhaps, of a moment, a pause, a consideration between the two of us.  One at this side of the road, the other at that side of the road.

But what was right?  No, not a road.  That was only one direction: this way or that way.  There were others, maybe many others.  Only some of them were just beginning, only some of them were finally ending.  He said that a few of us hadn't ... taken it well.  How not well?

Not well of tears?  Not well of sleepless nights?  Not well of sadness?  Not well of fear?  Not well of fright?

I could imagine that too well, and then did, as the coffee filled my mouth with warm excitement: a mirror-image walking through my life, stepping on my toes, taking my place in line, getting everywhere before me, moving in, taking everything.  I could see where that would push and push and push until I fell over into tears, from sleepless nights of paranoia, sadness of loss, fear of vanishing, and fright from being replaced.

But there were other kinds of not well.  Different direction I could have gone.

Not well of tears?  Not well of seduction?  Not well of temptation?  Not well of escape?  Not well of capture?

I could imagine that too well, and then did as the coffee filled my mouth with cooling excitement: a mirror-image fantasy lurking around every nasty corner of my life, crooking a finger at my conscienceless dick, licking duplicate lips, offering a perfect self-dream of narcissism, an enrapturing embrace of the one person I knew would be there and love me no matter what – but then there was the bad stuff of it, the swirling-down-the-drain shivers at the thought of gazing from now until whenever at my own navel.  I could see where that would shove me into tears from the allure of seduction, the tug of temptation, the fever to escape, and then the dark wish for capture.

But there were other kinds of not well.  Different direction I could have gone.

Not well of tears?  Not well of stalking?  Not well of pursuit?  Not well of corners?  Not well of desperation?  Not well of blood?  Not well of red and blue lights?  Not well of prison?  Not well of hail of gunfire?

I could imagine that too well, and then did as the coffee filled my mouth with cold dread: around every corner, behind every closed door, a leering face from a warped mirror; every step from behind belonging to him, every sound coming from him, every face at first his – until proven otherwise, every threat his, everything everywhere a scheme belonging to him.  I could see where that would shove me into frightened tears, drive me quivering insane from his real or imagined stalking, his real or imagined pursuit, his real or imagined face around every corner, then a moment when it didn't matter if he was real or imagined – it had to stop, then a moment of blood, then an afterworld of alleys and darkness escaping from the police, then an afterworld of bars and rape – or an afterworld of bullets burning hot holes through his body.

So many other kinds of not well.  So many different directions I could have gone.  Not a road.  No, that wasn't right.  So many stories with so many different versions of me.  I could see them as separate, unconnected, single stories – or even like a novel, with each chapter only looking like the same me on a trip from suspicion to seduction to smashing a supposed copy's brain to gray pudding – but in reality each me is a different one, lots of little stories instead of a big one in little pieces.

And I, sitting in front of another me sipping coffee, is just one more.  One more false chapter.  One more me.  In some books I'd be the end, in others only the beginning.

We got up to refresh our caramel macchiatos, he and I, perfectly together – as were the grins we shared at getting up together to refresh our caramel macchiatos.  Then we were broken, he doing something I wasn't doing – but only for a moment as I followed the turn of his head to look out the window, and saw what he turned his head to see.  Outside, looking in, worn and tired, scared and sleepless, Tommy Hilfiger over an older look as disguise, eyes too wide from too many shocks, was another me.

With what I hoped was a friendly beckoning, I crooked my finger at him; welcoming him into the company of himself.