During the dark days of slavery (or, as it is now more commonly referred to, the Paula Deen Good Times Hour), black people were often considered 3/5 of a human being. (This notion was later scientifically disproven by dividing the number of zeroes in Oprah Winfrey’s bank account by the number in the Klu Klux Klan’s.) Once America finally realized that Black people were a full 5/5 of a human being, it was, perhaps, only a matter of time before they came to the same conclusion about gay folk.

I just didn’t think it would be this soon.

Wednesday, the Supreme Court voted in favor of gay marriage rights, which essentially granted us gay folk that extra 2/5. And I don’t know about you, but I was simply not prepared to deal with having an extra 40% of myself.

I’m a handful as it is – anal, workaholic, a tad materialistic, pushy in a politely passive-aggressive way – you know, kinda crazy around the edges. So another 2/5 just seems like overkill.

Yet, much like when you have a genie wish granted, or Jesus owes you a favor, I feel somehow obligated to make the most of this extra piece of personhood.

I just have no idea where to start.

For guidance, I looked to see what Black people did with theirs. Generally speaking, they seem to have gone to college, redefined basketball, invented hip-hop, popularized junk in the trunk, and taken over running the free world.

That’s fairly impressive. Of course, that took 150 years or so. So maybe I don’t need to wow everyone with my 2/5 right off the bat. Maybe I can just start small.

I’m thinking one fifth should go to self-esteem. I did, after all, spend the better part of a decade trying to pray the gay away. Then another decade trying to drink it away. (Of the two, I’d recommend the latter.) Having the kind of self-esteem that comes from being allowed to participate in the same rituals as straight Americans will definitely be a good use of this 20%. It could even result in some future accomplishments, like a gay hip-hop album (Straight Outta Castro) or a new version of basketball where gay guys drink cocktails and describe the outfits they would wear to play it.

The final fifth could go to forgiveness – of the people who, at this moment, are mourning the loss of traditional marriage and fearing the devastation of the family unit. I may be forced to continue forgiving them for a while, since the evidence of social change doesn’t appear overnight. But what the heck, this is bonus personhood. I can afford it.

And eventually, they’ll see that, like the Suffrage movement, and the Civil Rights movement, when everyone thinks the sky is falling, it’s really just this amazing American land – filled with a rainbow of humanity that glistens with diversity – rising up to meet it.

Maybe it’s just me, but I think those are 2/5 very well spent.

My partner, Sandy, who works from home, was out of town when I texted him with a helpful suggestion.

Just got a postcard from the DWP saying that they’re shutting off the power for God knows what reason. Probably to remind us what having no power is like before they raise our rates. You should consider staying overnight at the condo in Palm Springs and working there on Wednesday. Then you can drive home once the power’s back on.

He was, of course, quite grateful, and I silently checked myself for stigmata as I embraced my Christ-like qualities of compassion and thoughtfulness. Who needs to do an AIDS Ride or volunteer in the Peace Corps, I thought. I just notified my partner that the power was gonna be out.

As Wednesday commenced, I paused periodically to revel in the Smell Me nature of my sensitivity to others’ needs. Until I got a text from Sandy.

YOU ARE A PIECE OF WORK.

A piece of God’s greatest handiwork, I assumed he meant. Tall, and smart, and filled with virtuous qualities like selflessness and humility. I dialed his cell.

“Did you read the card from the DWP?” he said when he answered.

“Of course,” I replied defensively, almost mystically intuiting a shift in tone away from gratitude. “It said 8:00-3:30 on Wednesday. In bold type.”

“That’s right,” he replied. “8:00-3:30 on Wednesday. IN PALM SPRINGS. Where I AM.”

We own a little condo in Palm Springs that we rent out, mostly to delightful Canadian retirees who flee British Columbia in the winter to escape the Santa’s Workshop-like conditions up there. The DWP postcard, which came to our LA address, was for that condo. I had sent him TO the power outage instead of away from it.

“You’re always reminding me,” he barked, “what an amazing combination of creativity and organizational ability you have.”

“That is not true!” I yelled, inadvertently overlooking the advertising awards, book reviews and valuable suggestions on how to live his life more efficiently that I occasionally leave on the kitchen counter.

“You might wanna rethink the organizational part.”

He reminded me of the time that I got lost on the Paris metro and had to wait for him to come find me because I couldn’t decipher the maps. He reminded me of the time that he asked me to pick him up from the airport and I did, dutifully driving to Burbank airport at the appointed time. Except he was at LAX.

“Clearly,” I sniffed, “the scale is just tipping a little more towards creativity these days. I am, after all, a writer.”

“Uh-huh,” he replied. “Well, unless there’s a National Book Award or Emmy statuette on the counter when I get home tomorrow, I’m thinking the scale is tipping a little more towards 72-hour-hold.”

Come visit me. I’ll be the one enjoying three luxurious days off with catered meals and free drugs.