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So
I
did
n't
cry
at
my
first
support
group
,
two
years
ago
.
I
did
n't
cry
at
my
second
or
my
third
support
group
,
either
.
I
did
n't
cry
at
blood
parasites
or
bowel
cancers
or
organic
brain
dementia
.
This
is
how
it
is
with
insomnia
.
Everything
is
so
far
away
,
a
copy
of
a
copy
of
a
copy
.
The
insomnia
distance
of
everything
,
you
ca
n't
touch
anything
and
nothing
can
touch
you
.
Then
there
was
Bob
.
The
first
time
I
went
to
testicular
cancer
,
Bob
the
big
moosie
,
the
big
cheesebread
moved
in
on
top
of
me
in
Remaining
Men
Together
and
started
crying
.
The
big
moosie
treed
right
across
the
room
when
it
was
hug
time
,
his
arms
at
his
sides
,
his
shoulders
rounded
.
His
big
moosie
chin
on
his
chest
,
his
eyes
already
shrink-wrapped
in
tears
.
Shuffling
his
feet
,
knees
together
invisible
steps
,
Bob
slid
across
the
basement
floor
to
heave
himself
on
me
.
Bob
pancaked
down
on
me
.
Bob
's
big
arms
wrapped
around
me
.
Big
Bob
was
a
juicer
,
he
said
.
All
those
salad
days
on
Dianabol
and
then
the
racehorse
steroid
,
Wistrol
.
His
own
gym
,
Big
Bob
owned
a
gym
.
He
'd
been
married
three
times
.
He
'd
done
product
endorsements
,
and
had
I
seen
him
on
television
,
ever
?
The
whole
how-to
program
about
expanding
your
chest
was
practically
his
invention
.
Strangers
with
this
kind
of
honesty
make
me
go
a
big
rubbery
one
,
if
you
know
what
I
mean
.
Bob
did
n't
know
.
Maybe
only
one
of
his
huevos
had
ever
descended
,
and
he
knew
this
was
a
risk
factor
.
Bob
told
me
about
postoperative
hormone
therapy
.
A
lot
of
bodybuilders
shooting
too
much
testosterone
would
get
what
they
called
bitch
tits
.
