Infatuation, continued

I think if there were already the words we needed, we wouldn't need writers. If there were a word for how I feel I wouldn't have to try to string together a dozen instead. If I could string together a dozen to adequately express myself I wouldn't have to keep trying. Writing is necessary because it fails.

Satanist Dan

He makes me pancakes in the morning and texts me during the day to say hi, and instead of rolling my eyes or worrying that he's too attached or feeling claustrophobic, I grin and giggle. When I say he called! my voice squeeks a little, too high pitched to come out right.

Nadir

I feel like I've reached some sort of peak (or nadir, depending on how you look at it) of weird messages, and now I'm settling back into something almost approximating normal. Sort of.

New Test Results

I retook the OKCupid test again, with new data from the last month. My new results:

Your sexual avarice is legendary. You’ve already had an unusually high amount of experience, and, still you look for more. You intimidate many. You make no apologies.

Personality-wise, you’re carefree and relatively easy-going. You don’t plan things out ahead of time; you tend to live in the moment. Of course, this can cause some damage when the moment happens to include a screaming orgasm with his younger brother. Hence the ‘brutal’ tag we’ve given you.

But you know what, take five seconds to lock the doors, and you’ll be fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little sex, or a whole lot.

It's true

Things I don't feel like doing.

Tuesday: remake Light & Color slide show. Make lighting demo?
Wednesday: read
Thursday: class all day
Friday: mix radio essay, read

Reading: Narrative book, Spalding Gray, John Tagg, Feminist packet

Tonight I think it's okay if I spend the night editing photos. It is productive, just not due anytime soon.

Feeling sorry for myself

Yeah, sorry. This is the kind of thing that embarrasses me to make public. I hate feeling sorry for myself. It's my birthday tomorrow, and I didn't say anything really, not to anyone. I felt like this one should be special, a big deal, a big party, something more than a couple people at Deadwood. Except I'm not the kind of person who throws big parties; I don't know how. I don't really know enough people. So rather than try and fail, I decided to not care. Or at least pretend to not care.

yeah.

This blog needs more pretty pictures again

here you go
Nebraska State Fair 2009

I didn't realize when I sat down to write how much I wanted to say.

People ask me sometimes why I blog a particular thing, or why I blog in general. They wonder what appeal Twitter has for me. I usually tell them that I live almost entirely in my head, with a constant narration voiced over every activity. It's like I experience my life in the third person. And so when I blog, or tweet, what I'm doing is taking that narration and making it real. The words become real when they exist in a public space. And that is deeply satisfying to me in ways I can't quite explain. I can't get enough of it. It's not about readership. I talk aloud to myself in an empty room; I would write these words to an empty internet, if such a thing existed. It's not about being read, it's about being readable.

I also remember telling someone once that I have no sense of privacy. I have no filters, not where the internet is concerned. I send a tweet on Wednesday evening at 7:30 saying that I'm going over to Satanist Dan's house for a thinly-veiled study break. I send a tweet at 12:30 that same night saying I'm back. I sometimes enjoy appearing enigmatic, but it's an affectation. I like the appearance of being coy more than I care about actually protecting information.

So it feels very odd as I write this, because I do want to withhold details. I'm not sure if it's because of a not-quite-buried sense of privacy, or embarrassment. It may be shame. I'm still processing what happened and why, what I liked and didn't like and why. I think that the overall lessons are already apparent. I think my experiment with acting out, this strange and exciting excursion into being a woman of loose morals, is over.

I'm watching myself play out my life according to an already established script. I'm such a cliche. Look at the girl getting into a serious relationship in her early 20s. Look at her uproot her life in her late 20s to move across the country to go to graduate school. Look at her reexamine her life, realize she isn't in love, realize she isn't the person she wants to be. Look as she gets closer and closer to her 30th birthday: she gets her lip pierced in San Francisco. She starts drinking. She starts dating. She starts sleeping around. It's classic mid life crisis, minus the red car, or at least a slightly early case of the 30-something angst that seems so popular these days.

And the next part of the story, of course, is where I realize that meaningless sex is, in fact, meaningless. And not only am I not any happier when it's over and the latex is being removed, but I'm not even that happy during the process. Meaningless sex isn't even very good sex. This isn't some grand revelation. I knew this is exactly the conclusion I was going to come to. But I felt like I needed to get there myself. I've always had the answers in the back of the book but if I couldn't show my work, what use are answers?

It may be too early to say that I'm done with this part of my life. There is obviously a big difference between deciding to do something, and actually doing it. Perhaps next weekend Boy 3 will call again, and offer the same deal, and I may decide that the excitement, the newness, the slightly scandalous nature of the offer makes it appealing enough to accept. Then again, perhaps affection will overwhelm reason and I will convince myself that I am in love with Satanist Dan, that I want him and no one else for ever and only.

I like to think that neither will happen. I like to think that Dan will call me again soon. We will eat mint ice cream and watch cartoons sprawled on his couch, his hands rubbing my back, kissing during commercials. And I will keep sending out messages, hoping someone will write me back, and we will chat over coffee, then drinks, and I will wonder if this new boy wants to kiss me because I really want him to. I will get a big goofy grin when he calls. I want goofy grins. As I process the last 48 hours, that is what stands out, what is missing.

Melancholy Sunday Night

The Complications of Liking Satanist Dan

I'm actually starting to feel mildly girlfriend-y with Boy 2, enough that I'm getting a slight twinge of -something- sending this. I think I may have actually chosen to not send another message on account of it. This requires a bit of thought: is it because I don't want to keep looking, or is it just because I'm still caught up in the monogamous mindset enough to feel guilt over things I don't think are wrong?

Or is it just that the message I didn't send was to someone who mentions hanging out at Deadwood, which, as the bar Boy 2 is most often at, might be awkward?

I do still want to see Boy 3 again (although thankfully boy 2 has helped dampen the crazy), and I don't feel so weird about that. Maybe it's the difference between having someone else and looking for someone else. The latter sort of implies a dissatisfaction with what I have. And I'm happy. I like Boy 2. I'm looking forward to seeing him again, and I think there's a good chance that it isn't just infatuation or sex. Although we'll have to wait a few weeks to verify a lack of infatuation.

But meeting new people is exciting. Being flirted with is exciting. Having possibilities, even if they never work out, is exciting.

And the letter writing has become such a habit that I'm not even sure that writing these letters and looking for a date are the same thing at all.

And yet, that twinge. It says "Boy 2 may know that, in theory, we have no exclusive commitment, but that's not the same as knowing that, in practice, I send out letters every day. Is it something that seems like I shouldn't talk about to him because it's just polite to keep them separated, or because I'm hiding something from him?"

The voice also says "you like the boyfriend-y things he does and if you take those things while sending these letters you are being duplicitous and taking advantage which is hardly a nice thing to do to someone you like."

I suppose the answer, like usual, is communication. We've been going on assumptions, and I don't really know what his assumptions are.

addiction

I don't know if I know how to stop.

Decoys for Tonight

One guy stood me up again tonight. Another guy I can't get my mind off of. So I sent out a few more letters to distract myself.

From last night before I lost my internet

I'm going to be maudlin. I'm going to be embarrassed by this in the morning.

Yeah.

I was having so much fun, flitting around, that I forgot the real reason I'd chosen Fun over Real in the first place. It's not really because I'm moving. I've been saying even if I found Real, what would I do with it, I'm leaving, but that's not entirely true.

The truth is, I think if I found Real, I'd still just use it for how it makes me feel, and the only important thing would continue to be me. I don't know if I can change, and I don't think I can offer anything Real until I do.

Rough draft for Radio Essays #3

I think this is my last edit before I start recording. I'm really happy with it.

Last week I answered a personal ad from a Satanist named Dan. He wanted to perform ritualistic sex in order to bring about the rise of Lucifer. The phrases sacrifice altar and satanic slit come up. I’m pretty sure it’s a joke. I’m hoping he’ll write me back.

My name is Angela and I’m 29 years old. I can type 50 words per minute with a cat on my lap, and 75 words per minute without help. I can dance the Charleston and make ordinary things beautiful. I am short, fat, half-Asian, and a Libra with Libra rising. I live in Iowa City, and, like everyone else, I’m looking for love.

Okay, well, I’m looking for what OKCupid.com calls a short term relationship. Plentyoffish.com calls it dating, and my friends call it “kind-of-sort-of seeing-someone-I-think.” It falls somewhere in between u-hauls and one night stands. I’m looking for non-committal answers. I’m hoping to keep “love” out of the equation.

Sent to Alfonse, August 17^th, 3:33am: I like that you’re online at 3:22am, even though I shouldn't be online, or even awake. These messages, sent sort of in the dark, are strange to write, and must be strange to read. I can never decide if I should try to lessen the weirdness, or go all-out. Ideally, I will convince you that I'm interesting enough to warrant a message back. I'd like that.

I started browsing craigslist ads a couple months ago. They were funny in a sad sort of way, like reality television shows or gossip magazines.

Sexy Italian, 23, loves football, baseball, and his little dog, Ruffles.

Hot chocolate for experienced cougar, 34, likes movies and traveling.

Nice college man, 19, has a girlfriend who’s boring and bad in bed.

Who writes these things? And how could anyone take them seriously?

Sent to tubamyst, August 17^th 11:17pm: Your profile amuses me. Hopefully, you will be entertained enough, either by this awkward note, or my profile, to be interested in further communication. Messages back are good. So is meeting for coffee.

Mike was the first person to reply. Mike was about 5’10,” with a pale complexion, a lumpy, shaved head, and a goatee. He was actually kind of lumpy all over. We wrote back and forth a few times. He couldn’t call because he didn’t have any long distance. He couldn’t meet me at most of the places I suggested because he didn’t have a working car. Those were warning signs. I ignored them. We got burgers and milkshakes and talked about video games. We went to his place to watch TV. What I should have expected, but didn’t, was that his “place” was a trailer, complete with broken down cars outside and a strong aroma of cat pee. I wasn’t sure if the stains covering the carpet were from his 20 pound cat or from spilled bong water. And even though this guy was a stranger that I never intended to see or talk to again, I still felt obligated to stay a few hours and pretend that everything was fine. We watched Michael and Michael Have Issues. We watched Burn Notice. I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to get as much distance as I could between my nose and the furniture. In front of me, international super spies in white suits and convertibles chased each other through Miami. They had amazing tans. I leaned in towards the television, as if it were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

The next day, he asked when I wanted to come by again. I never wrote him back.

After Mike was Dragoli, 22 years old and living 500 miles away in Michigan. He asked me, over instant message, to be his girlfriend. He was very polite; he even said please. After Dragoli was Jonathan, who was in the Army Reserve and needed a date to take to an Christmas party so they wouldn’t think he was gay. I’m pretty sure I’m not what the army was looking for in a date.

Sent to pdot1973, August 29^th, 4:40 pm: I'm intrigued by your air of mystery. Or at least your self-conscious, thwarted attempt at creating an air of mystery. So the next step seems to be sending you a message so you will visit my profile, screen me for whatever it is you're looking to find, and write back. Hopefully, you are not looking for mystery. I'm not so good at that. Long-winded, I am very good at. Taking things seriously? Not so good at that, either.

Step three then, is waiting for a reply. Please do, that would be fun.

I sent out messages on a regular basis, sometimes as many as four or five in a day, form letters applying for any open position. After a few dozen of them they all started to sound the same. I made small adjustments from one message to another, in order to give the appearance of personalization. I might refer briefly to a movie they talk about on their profile to prove that I read it. I might mention my profile in the hopes that they would read it. But only those details changed. My goal remained the same. I wanted to schedule an interview. I tried to present myself in an honest, but flattering manner, self-promoting but not arrogant. Due to standard internet attention spans I tried to keep it to 200 words or less.

Sent yesterday to mnench, 7:18pm: I am 7 years, 12 inches, and one Y chromosome away from you. I like watching people paint. I also think that most things are not as obvious as people assume they are. Will you write back?

So far, out of several dozen messages sent, only four people have replied. This might mean that my letters are successfully filtering out the frat boys, dungeon and dragons players, and people with aversions to short, fat, half-asian, Libras. Or it might mean that I come across as having schizophrenic tendencies, and have scared off anyone with sense or intelligence. But this letter writing campaign has become an end in itself. I have developed a sly fondness for these messages. I have begun saving them, electronic mementos of imaginary love affairs.

Dan the Satanist is one of the four who wrote back. When he’s not performing dark rituals in Boba Fett costume, he runs a creamery outside of town.

I can’t wait to meet him.

Sheesh

But Who Cares About Data Anyway?

New Data Says Short Messages Succeed

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Collection

My First Radio Project

Text adapted from How To Become a Writer, by Lorrie Moore, from her book Self Help.
Music: Walk or Ride and Wishful Thinking, by The Ditty Bops, from their self-titled album,
and Sleep, by The Dandy Warhols, from their album Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia

Wednesday afternoon

I am thinking more and more about stories. About how much of our lives are dependent on the stories we tell ourselves. Facts are meaningless. It is the interpretations that mean something, that reach out and push us along. Change how we tell the story, and the world changes.

The way I tell it.

Those of you who know me in person already know the story. You have probably heard it enough to even know the way I tell the story: the specific words and phrases that have become as much a part of story as the ideas they denote.

Sign, Signifier, Signified.

I was a writer once.

I won a college award or two. I got a poem published in The Iowa Review; it was my shining joy. I took classes, ran the literary journal on campus, planned for graduate school. I fell asleep with words in my head and some nights I woke up at midnight, one, two, five in the morning, frantic, full of hope and desperation and too many adjectives.

You have to understand, I was a writer once. This university was a celebrity to me: sexy, funny, smart, and way out of my league. It was the best writing program in the country. I wrote agonized love poems and memorized its schedule. I dreamed. So when I say, I got a poem published in The Iowa Review, that's what it means. It means it looked at me once, and smiled.

I was a writer once, ten--almost eleven--years ago. I was 19. I was taking beginning photo. I was taking intermediate photo. Then I was 20 and I was taking advanced photo and studio lighting. I bought a 4x5 camera, and I always smelled like fixer. I had stained everything I owned. And I slept through the night.

It felt like I had lost my words.

I stopped writing. I exchanged English classes for ceramics, design, sculpture. I got a job at a photo store after graduation. I began to tell the story to myself, of how I had been a writer once.

Now I am turning 30, and in my last year of graduate school. I am in the photography program. I make pretty pictures. I'm good at it; people like them. I tell the story, to myself, to others, about how I had been a writer once, but not anymore. I gave up words for pretty pictures. It goes along with the story about living in an apartment in Berkeley with a girl who worked in a sex dungeon, or the story about my teenage rebellions. These things are part of where I come from, they explain my blue hair, the leather corset in my closet, my lack of art history credits in undergrad.

So when I tell you that I am in a graduate writing class at this university, it doesn't mean just that. It means this semester, and last semester, and everything I have believed about myself for the last ten, almost eleven years, for nearly all of my adult life.

And when I tell you that my first workshop went well, it means everything.

How?

My god, is this my life?

I am dating. I am dating in multiples. I am making first moves. I am texting one guy while sitting in another guy's bed.

I can't believe it's me doing it, and I can't believe it's working. I can't believe I've conned not only one guy, but two or even possibly more, into finding me desirable. I'm almost starting to think that I might be desirable. This is a dangerous thought.

I am a little surprised, and a little amused, that my degree seems to be helping me get laid. More than one guy has mentioned it. Apparently graduate degrees are sexy? Or maybe it adds to bragging rights or something, like big tits. Man, I made out with this girl at the bar last night, and she had the biggest fucking tits and a Masters in Art.

Oooh a followup!

en masse

(click image for fullscreen view)

Rough draft for Radio Essays #2

Last week I talked to a stranger 500 miles away. He asked me to be his girlfriend. He was very polite; he even said “please.” I also answered a personal ad from a Satanist named Dan. He wanted to perform ritualistic sex in order to bring about the rise of Lucifer. The phrases sacrifice altar and satanic slit came up. I’m pretty sure it’s a joke. I’m hoping he’ll write me back.

My name is Angela and I’m 29 years old. Like everyone else, I’m looking for love.

Well, I’m looking for what OKCupid.com calls a short term relationship. Plentyoffish.com calls it dating, and my friends call it “kind-of-sort-of seeing-someone-I-think.” It falls somewhere in between u-hauls and one night stands. I’m looking for non-committal answers. I’m hoping to keep “love” out of the equation.

At first, I didn’t think of myself as looking for anything at all. When I started browsing personal ads on craigslist six months ago, I told myself I wasn’t actually trying to find a date. I just liked reading the ads. They were funny in a sad sort of way, like reality television shows or gossip magazines.

Sexy Italian, 23, loves football, baseball, and his little dog, Ruffles.

Hot chocolate for experienced cougar, 34, likes movies and traveling.

Nice college man, 19, has a girlfriend who’s boring and bad in bed.

Who writes these things? And how could anyone take them seriously?

Every once and a while, I would read a personal ad that was neither sad nor funny, that sounded less like sociological studies of frat boys and dungeon and dragons players, and more like excerpts from my own conversations. Some of the ads had a sense of humor: a little self-deprecating, a little quirky. They came from people sitting at their computers while their friends were out of town for the summer, or from people getting started in a new city. They weren’t looking for love but just for friendly company. I thought I might enjoy having extra company. I started answering ads.

Mike was the first person to reply. We wrote back and forth a few times. He couldn’t call because he didn’t have any long distance. He couldn’t meet me at most of the places I suggested because he didn’t have a working car. Those were warning signs. I ignored them. I wanted to give him a chance, and so I ended up spending an evening watching TV in a trailer that smelled like cat pee. And even though this guy was a stranger that I never intended to see or talk to again, I still felt obligated to stay a few hours and pretend that everything was fine. I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to get as much distance as I could between my nose and the furniture. I leaned in towards the television, as if it were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

The next day, he asked when I wanted to come by again. I never wrote him back. I did, however, keep answering ads.

Soon, I was answering ads that weren’t just looking for friends. I didn’t really take it seriously; I didn’t think anything would come of it. But I liked to think about dating. And the more I thought about dating, the more I liked the idea of it.

I joined a dating site. I wrote my personal description like a resume, appraising my strengths and finding ways to highlight them. My skills include typing 50 words per minute with a cat on my lap, and 75 words per minute without help. I can dance the Charleston, and make ordinary things beautiful. I am short, fat, and half-Asian. I don’t smoke, drink often, and don’t plan on bearing anyone’s offspring. I’m a Libra. I like cats.

I started sending out messages on a regular basis, sometimes as many as four or five in a day, form letters applying for any open position. After a few dozen of them they all started to sound the same. I made small adjustments from one message to another, in order to give the appearance of personalization. I might refer briefly to a movie they talk about on their profile to prove that I read it. I might mention my profile in the hopes that they would read it. But only those details changed. My goal remained the same. I wanted to schedule an interview. I tried to present myself in an honest, but flattering manner, self-promoting but not arrogant, and communicate a sense of my personality. Due to standard internet attention spans I tried to keep it to 200 words or less.

Sent to Alfonse, August 17^th, 3:33am: I like that you’re online at 3:22am, even though I shouldn't be online, or even awake. These messages, sent sort of in the dark, are strange to write, and must be strange to read. I can never decide if I should try to lessen the weirdness, or go all-out. Ideally, I will convince you that I'm interesting enough to warrant a message back. I'd like that.
Sent to tubamyst, August 17^th 11:17pm: Your profile amuses me. Hopefully, you will be entertained enough, either by this awkward note, or my profile, to be interested in further communication. Messages back are good. So is meeting for coffee.

Sent to pdot1973, August 29^th, 4:40 pm: I'm intrigued by your air of mystery. Or at least your self-conscious, thwarted attempt at creating an air of mystery. So the next step seems to be sending you a message so you will visit my profile, screen me for whatever it is you're looking to find, and write back. Hopefully, you are not looking for mystery. I'm not so good at that. Long-winded, I am very good at. Taking things seriously? Not so good at that, either.

Step three then, is waiting for a reply. Please do, that would be fun.

Sent yesterday to mnench, 7:18pm: I am 7 years, 12 inches, and one Y chromosome away from you. I like watching people paint. I also think that most things are not as obvious as people assume they are. Will you write back?

I still haven't actually had any dates. So far, out of several dozen messages sent, four people have replied. This might mean that my letters are successfully filtering out the frat boys, dungeon and dragons players, and people with aversions to short, fat, half-asian, Libras. Or it might mean that I come across as having schizophrenic tendencies, and have scared off anyone with sense or intelligence. But this letter writing campaign has become an end in itself. I have developed a sly fondness for these messages. I have begun saving them, electronic mementos of imaginary love affairs.

Dan the Satanist is one of the four who wrote back. When he’s not performing dark rituals in Boba Fett costume, he runs a creamery outside of town.

I can’t wait to meet him.

Statistics

Someone asked me how many responses I get to these OKCupid and craigslist emails I send out:

I've sent about 25-30 of these.

Out of those, about 8 people wrote back.

When I replied to those 8 people, only 4 replied back again:

1) The guy who lives in the cat-pee-smelling-trailer.
2) Ryan, who is a friend
3) Dan, who is the guy I stay up until 4am talking to. I really really like him but don't know if it's as friends or not, I still haven't met him in person.
4. Satanist Dan, who I think I'm having drinks with on Sunday

There have been 3 people who contacted me first: B, Jeremy, and one other guy I met twice and then didn't want to see again.

I have been told that my lack of response on OKCupid is bizarre. Because the guy/girl ratio is so strongly skewed, I hear that most girls get bombarded. I assume that I am either bizarrely unattractive or sufficiently weird to filter out all those guys. But I figure, anyone who gets filtered out because of my funny profile pic, or these strange messages, is probably someone I don't mind losing. I honestly don't know what "normal" letters look like and I don't know if I could write one if I tried.

And I do have people that I am very glad to have gotten to know- Ryan, both Dans, and Jeremy. So I do feel like this endeavor has been successful. Much more so than I would have thought.

Obsessive Collection piece #00PX95-1

Obsessive Collection piece #00PX95

Seeing Other People: update

All is well. Understanding has been reached, and with minimal awkwardness or unpleasantness. Actually, with no unpleasantness at all, except in my own reluctance to begin the conversation. Now if only Dan the Satanist would write back.

Seeing Other People

I feel a little guilty sending this because Jeremy & I haven't had the "what are we doing" conversation, and I think he's assuming that we're in a monogamous relationship, which is not an absurd assumption.

We've seen each other or talked on the phone every day for a week.

But I'm not ready to give this up. I don't want to stop looking and meeting people. It's such a cliche, but I don't want to feel tied down. I've spent my life going from one committed relationship to another, jumping in right away, and now that I'm "dating" for the first time, I don't want to give it up.

I talked to Jeremy on the phone for a while last night and it reminded me that I do like him even without physical contact. But then I got off the phone and wrote this message.

Unfortunately, what this means is, I need to have the talk with Jeremy. I don't want to. I am the Queen of Avoiding Difficult Conversations. But it's not fair to let him keep going on a misunderstanding, and it will only get worse the longer it goes. Also, I'd rather break the news that I'm still looking to date other people, as opposed to breaking the news that I am dating other people. And even that would be better than him just finding me out on a date.

So, tonight. I guess. Wish me luck.

in progress: for radio essay

This morning I talked to a stranger 500 miles away. He asked me to be his girlfriend. He was very polite; he even said “please.” I also answered a personal ad from someone looking to perform ritualistic sex in order to bring about the rise of Lucifer. The phrases sacrifice altar and satanic slit come up. I’m pretty sure it’s a joke. I’m hoping he’ll write me back.

My name is Angela, and, like everyone else, I’m looking for love.

Okay, well, I’m looking for what OKCupid.com calls a short term relationship. Plentyoffish.com calls it dating, and my friends call it “kind-of-sort-of seeing-someone-I-think.” It falls somewhere in between u-hauls and one night stands. I’m looking for non-committal answers. I’m hoping to keep “love” out of the equation.

I started browsing personal ads on craigslist a couple months ago, just for fun. I made sure to read even the ads that weren’t directed at me, because I didn’t want to be someone reading craigslist ads for a date. This was strictly for entertainment purposes only.

Sexy Italian, 23, loves football, baseball, and his little dog, Ruffles.

Hot chocolate for experienced cougar, 34, likes movies and traveling.

Nice college man, 19, has a girlfriend. He’s looking for friends with benefits.

Then I started answering personal ads. Just the ads that were looking for friends, people stuck in town for the summer with not a lot of company and not many responsibilities.

One guy wrote back to me and said he couldn’t call because he didn’t have any long distance. He couldn’t meet me at most of the places I suggested because he didn’t have a working car. Those were warning signs. I ignored them. I wanted to give him a chance, and so I ended up spending an evening watching TV in a trailer that smelled like cat pee. And even though this guy was a stranger that I never intended to see or talk to again, I still felt obliged to stay a few hours and pretend that everything was fine. I sat on the edge of the couch and tried to get as much distance as I could between my nose and the furniture. I leaned in towards the television, as if it were the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

The next day, he asked when I wanted to come by again. I never wrote him back. I did, however, keep answering ads.

Things to do this weekend:

1. Write 5 page personal narrative, due Friday @ 5p

2. Record, edit, Lorrie Moore, due Tuesday @6p

3. Make slide show for class, due Thursday @1:30p

4. Everything else: due the following week

#1 and #2 are the ones that scare me the most. #1 will take the longest, and I really must accomplish something on it today. And I am absolutely fucking terrified of it.

Sixty Fucking Pounds

(Some people have misunderstood: I cross them off when I pass them)