Has GayBoy adopted me?

He's on his way over yet again. Every time he's come since last Monday, the big layoff day, there has been food in his hand. Pizza, blueberry cheesecake, stolen wine from his father's cupboard, chocolate ganache, more pizza, steaks, and there's even a couple salmon steaks (despite my being opposed to seafood) in my freezer that he conveniently "left behind" last week.


I think I'm on the GayBoy social-assistance plan. I smoke him up, he feeds me. It's far more fun than having taxes deducted, I must say.

Rumour has it he's also bringing along a fifth of rum and some Coke.

Good friends rock.

(PS: The photo's further proof of GayBoy rocking. When I was having trouble with my scoot on a ride with him last week, the mere mention of troubles prompted him to take apart my bike, without me asking, begging, or pleading, as soon as we pulled off the road, some 25 miles/35 km from our homes.)