Last night I dreamed of L__ again. Though he has always been impossible to understand, he is familiar, and seeing him the dream was almost comforting. I have dreamed of L__ more than any other person. This dream was different, because we kissed. Thinking of it when I woke gave me a confused, buzzing little feeling.

Telling the Boyfriend about it was a mistake. His first reaction was to let me go; he told me I was free to find L__ and uncover whatever there might have been between us once and for all. He said I could always come back if I wanted to. I laughed it off and said, "Then I'm coming back now. There's nothing I want to explore with L__ and no way to find him even if I did."

This is true. I will never stop being curious, especially now after reading over all those old entries detailing our conversations and time together, but that doesn't take me away from wanting to be exactly where I am now. Still, I can feel those old questions pulling my hair, and I want to scream.

Now that I've gone back to read over those old conversations, it's clear to me at last what was clear to everyone else two years ago, that he must have had some attraction to me to be treating me that way, asking those prodding questions, and then sweeping himself away in a black cloud the moment he felt we were getting too close. He was a runner. I know this because, inside, I am too.

When I still worked at the record store he knew where to find me. He'd come in now and then, almost always with his brother or mother, and sometimes he would acknowledge me and sometimes not. By then it was too late and I had given up trying to solve the insoluble puzzle. Yesterday if you'd asked about L__, I wouldn't have cared at all. But like it or not he is still here, in my mind, and with him are all those insane, twisted, roundabout conversations we had, often intriguing, sometimes hilarious, always confusing as hell.

I put our words out there for others to see and a lot of people had opinions to offer and a lot of people tried to tell me how I should handle it. Maybe I was wrong to play it the way I did, allowing him to be cryptic and imagining that he would make himself understood in time. That last time we went out together, in the woods at night, when I asked why we were there and he wouldn't give me a straight answer, I just let it go. I couldn't have pressed him for an answer, he wouldn't have liked it. But I do wish I had known that this would be our last time really talking together.

He knew where to find me at the store. Now I've been laid off and I'm out with no clue where I'll end up next, looking for a job and a home, and this may be the cut tie, the very end of the unfinished story. I may never speak to him again.

At the same time I am being pushed inescapably toward things that I'm not sure of. My resume is being reviewed for jobs I'm not sure I want, but I need to work somewhere. The Boyfriend and I are applying for an apartment I'm not sure I like enough, but I need to live somewhere. He and I are facing living together for the first time and probably clashing on issues we're not sure we can deal with, but I have to love someone. Specifically, him. Again, I am falling back into that mind that wants to jump on a plane and hide away in some other part of the world. The worst part is that I know he would not come after me. He would let me go. He was on the point of letting me go today, just because I had a silly dream about a kiss, and it really was, on his part, an altruistic desire for me to find what I needed and be happy, even if that meant my not coming back to him. It made me sad that he would let that happen.

But still, I read about how I was then, with serious feelings for one boy who made me angrier than anyone in my life while I was being toyed with by L__ who seemed to want something from me that he would not ask for, and I want to shout to everyone who was in my life then, "Do you see? Look at me now! I did find what I needed, there is someone who loves me just as I am who I can love back. I'm worth the trouble. I am becoming a person you wouldn't recognize." To be fair, I wouldn't recognize me either.

These answers, like the answers to all the questions I have about L__, like L__ himself, are difficult to find. Not impossible -- customers would come into the store looking for a song they'd been trying to find for years and exhausted from their search, and I would tell them, "If there is a song, there is a way to find it." If a thing is out there in the world, it can be discovered. But I think these shadowy ghosts are meant to stay hidden, as hidden as the feelings one young man may or may not have had for me two years ago, as hidden as the people who read my words back then openly and -- through some clash or another -- read them secretly now. Everywhere there are insoluble puzzles.

The other night, the Boyfriend and I were in the pool. A white owl flew in low and passed over us three times, then flew away. I've always considered owls to be very good luck, and say that every time an owl flies over you, you should make a wish. That strange thing, passing us three times, felt like a biblical stroke of good luck. Or maybe it was the signal of an enormous change.

I wrote this at work today, while I was up at the register, waiting for customers. I made a few necessary changes, but this is the soul of it.


So much of my life seems to get put down on the back of this record shop scrap paper. It's funny to me how sometimes I'll come home with my pockets crammed full of pieces of paper with notes on it -- song titles, movies, bits of future journal entries, letters to Dear You, little opinions I give up to the void. Sometimes I feel like I'll write my memoirs on the backs of these raincheck slips.

It feels like everyone is just a person-shaped bag of secrets and bones. I will never know who they really are. Shy, silent B___ says next to nothing while she's working, but when she's on her break, she goes to the back parking lot and talks on her cell phone to her sweet punky boyfriend. She could be having a panic attack every day, begging him to come pick her up early, and I would never know.

G___ is engaged, but every time someone asks if she loves him, she gets flustered and changes the subject. N___'s baby got her arm broken a few months back, and N___ won't say why. B___ suddenly stopped talking to me -- me, and no one else -- and he quit the store without ever having explained it.

There is so much we will never know about each other.

Every day I watch him, waiting for him to say something to me. No one knows that it makes me want to cry every time he leaves without a word. Every day I watch the door, waiting for someone to come in and talk to me. I don't tell anyone. I wouldn't, because it's irrelevant.

And then there's L___. L___ is nothing but secrets. He doesn't want anyone to figure him out. He doesn't even want anyone to want to.

In this world, music is made through laser-cut vibrations. Everything is getting smaller and faster and more convenient. Cars can only run on petrol for twenty more years or so before it all dries up. Telephones, stereos, computers and televisions have all been combined into something that goes in your pocket. Someone somewhere has invented a disorder for every natural human emotion. Palm trees still bend in high wind, ants still run everywhere they go. Everything changes by the second.

I'm looking around my record store while the beginning notes to Ray Lamontagne's new record is playing. The store is quiet and nearly empty, and I'm feeling now just how beautiful it is. One of my homes is here. I will never have this moment again.

This moment, this second, no one else knows it but me.

We are all person-shaped bags of secrets and bones.

"Do I stress you out, my sweater is on backwards and inside out and you say 'how appropriate', I don't dissect everything today, I don't mean to pick you apart you see, but I can't help it..."
-- Alanis Morissette: "All I Really Want"


It is disturbing, truly disturbing, how many dreams I keep having about L___. I had three in a row just last night. There's no call for it... neither of us did anything to deserve it... it's not as if he's the most intense person in my life at the moment, or the person I think of the most. Maybe my subconscious mind is trying to punish me for feeding it so much garbage when I'm awake.

Without even saying hello, he asked, "When you're walking around or talking to someone or going through a doorway or something, do you think about it, or do you just do it?"

"Do you always begin conversations this way?"

"Would you rather not talk about it?"

"No, it's not that," I said, trying not to roll my eyes at his habit of replying to a question with a question.

"I think it's easier to skip the bullshit, the 'how was your night? That's a nice shirt', all that."

"Oh, do you like it?" I said, grinning and smoothing down the front of my red tunic. He gave me a look. "Well no, I agree with you, but I was just curious."

"So was I."

"I suppose I think about it on some level, yes, it's necessary to the arrangement of moving without causing injury, but do I put a lot of concentration into the act of putting one foot in front of the other? No. Not unless I'm feeling particularly out of balance that day. I'll try and think about what I'm saying before I say it, sure, but for something as simple as walking around, it doesn't take a lot of conscious effort. I'm sure I act differently out of anxiety if I know someone is watching me."

"Like this right here," said L___, gesturing to my posture, which made me realize that I'd been leaning an elbow against the cabinet while talking to him. "Did you consciously decide to stand like this, what made you lean that way, why not just stand there?"

Immediately I stood up straight, wondered why I stood up, then felt my whole body urging me to lean again, Lean, damn it, NOW or it'll be awkward! LEAN!

I leaned.

"I'm not exactly sure," I said. "I somehow feel like I have to."

"So generally your movements aren't calculated, but sometimes they will be."

"Correct. Why, do you operate differently?"

"I always concentrate on everything I do."

Must be exhausting.

"Out of curiosity, why do you ask?"

"Because I notice that you always seem to move the same way," he said. "When you walk in the door you always turn your head to look at the front counter, tuck your hair behind your ear, turn toward the back door and hitch up your bag on your shoulder, it's all one motion."

"Oh golly," I said, laughing. "I do, don't I? I know more than once you've commented on how I'll hunch my shoulders when I'm going past someone."

"You do that, and if you're walking past someone and they look at you, you'll always look at the floor."

As ever, L___ is far too perceptive for my own good.

"I'm also a lip-biter. I only recently realized I do this."

"I've never seen you bite your lip."

"Maybe I don't do it around you because you make me so damn nervous."

"Why? Are you nervous now?"

"No, not really. You're just a generally intimidating person."

"People say that about me a lot. They also describe me as serious or angry or mysterious. Everything but hot."

I snorted, loud.

"My brother gets to be hot," he said. "He's four years younger than me and he's had more girlfriends than I have."

"Oh come on, that is no indication of hotness."

"In a way, it is! My brother gets called mysterious, I get called grouchy. He gets called hot, I don't. And I'm not hot, that's fine---"

"Oh, L___, don't even---"

But he kept talking before I could have the chance to humiliate myself.

I was surprised. L___ has a deep hatred for those statements people will make about themselves that are blatantly untrue and require contestation, and has often scolded me for saying of myself, even jokingly, "I'm not very bright". Because of this, I know he'd never say something of himself that he didn't believe to be true.

Of course, "hot" isn't a word I'd ever use to describe L___. This would be akin to describing a panther as "adorable". To be honest, L___ is very handsome. When I first met him he didn't strike me at all, and it is only within the past month that I've started to appreciate him.

There is no flowery detail to go into, no chance of perfumed language and pretty words to describe his hair or eyes or mouth or the bridge of his nose or the shape of his shoulder blades. That would only be ridiculous; he is not the type. But he's not at all unhandsome, and I find it astonishing to imagine that he could think otherwise.

We went on to discuss the things people will say about him and I said, "Everyone thinks they know you. People will say, 'The thing about L___ is... L___ is always so... what you need to understand about L___ is...' and it's silly because they don't know you any more than I do. I don't like to make statements about who you are. Who am I to know?"

"But you said earlier that I'm intimidating."

"Right, because that's my reaction to you. It's not an assessment of your character, I'm saying I'm intimidated by you. I can only say how I react to you, not what you are."

He didn't seem to be able to argue with this.

It is alarming to see our conversations written down like this, because it makes me realize how similar we are to each other. We are both so obtuse, so evasive, so stubborn and feisty, that I often feel like I've been talking in my sleep again. We know each other's stratagems because we each use them. We'll have dizzying social or philosophical or interpersonal debates, like the one below, that seem to sizzle with tension and scathing wit.

We discussed confrontation and how I hate it and he loves it.

"Sometimes I even look forward to it."

"Well," I said. "But you're very---"

I stopped myself. I'd been about to make one of those irritating statements about his character.

L___ looked at me. "Very what?"

"Tall," I said. "Quite tall."

"Am I really," he said, smiling. "But you avoided answering."

"How do you know that wasn't my real answer?"

"Because it wasn't."

"Why do you say that? Are you not tall?"

"Another ploy of yours to avoid giving your real answer."

"You and I both are skilled at avoidation. It's how we handle confrontation."

"But you're the one that hates confrontation."

"Ah, so I do. You have me there."

"Why does it make you so nervous?"

"Do I look nervous? I'm not. This is me relaxed."

"Why do all our conversations end up this way? Sometimes I wonder why I bother talking to you at all."

"Sometimes so do I."

"And yet you still manage to keep from answering the question."

"Was there a question?"

He smiled, looking down and shaking his head. "'Was there a question' she asks..."

"I can't be expected to remember."

"You started to say something about me and you stopped, so what was it? What am I?"

"I don't know, you're a lot of things."

"Why won't you answer?" he was watching me now, and not his work. "Are you afraid I'll ridicule you or lash out at you, are you afraid---"

"Who says I'm afraid?"

"You're not answering the question, Kit, you won't tell me what you were about to say, what am I?" he was looking at me, hard, and it didn't occur to me until much later that he may have really needed to hear it. "Why won't you tell me?"

"I don't know what you want me to say," I told him, shrugging.

He shook his head and muttered, "Bullshit."

He started to rapidly clean up the things he'd been working on.

"You're angry now," I said.

"No, I'm disappointed."

"Oh God, that's much worse than angry..."

"It's fine, Kit, forget it. I have to go on my break anyway."

He left and I felt baffled and upset with myself. Why do I do this? What did he mean? What was it that he was waiting for?


I think I'm the enemy.

"A fine romance, with no kisses, a fine romance, my friend this is, we should be like a couple of hot tomatoes, but you're as cold as yesterday's mashed potatoes, a fine romance, you won't nestle, a fine romance, you won't wrestle, I might as well play bridge with my old maid aunts, I haven't got a chance, this is a fine romance, a fine romance, my good fellow, you take romance, I'll take Jello, you're calmer than the seals in the Arctic ocean, at least they flap their fins to express emotion, a fine romance with no quarrels, with no insults, and all morals, I've never mussed the crease in your blue dress pants, I never get the chance, this is a fine romance...."
-- Billie Holiday: "A Fine Romance"


It's getting to the point, I think, where all it would take are the right words and I'm won. For that, I am frightened for myself. But for days I've been waiting, and I get no words at all. For that, I am also frightened.

I don't know how to handle this. I feel so vulnerable just now, so easily tossed around. I feel like a leaf, thin and frail, being blown back and forth with no decided direction and no choice. I feel as if I would trust anyone right now, just to be able to do it. All it would take is someone willing to talk to me. No one will talk to me anymore.

And L___... does he ignore me because I frighten him too? Is he attracted to me, and is that why he's acting so strangely around me, or is it because he doesn't like me at all? Is it because he wants me gone, or is he as much a coward as I am? Is he doing this to me deliberately, or is he not even thinking about it?

Everyone thinks they understand him. If I don't hide my frustration, they'll say, "The thing you've gotta understand about L___..." I'm only just realizing that this is bullshit. They don't understand him any more than I do.




And this dream I had last night... It's disturbing because I realize I've had more dreams with L___ in them than with anyone else in my life, ever. My own sister hasn't been in as many dreams as L___ has. I feel extremely confused.

Last night I dreamed he and I were spending the night in the same place, and we had to share a bed. He was already asleep and facing me when I crawled in, trying not to wake him. When I settled down next to him he stirred and looked at me.

"Your eyes are very pretty when you've just woken up," he said.

I ducked my head into the pillow and laughed.

"Look at me," he said.

Even in the dream, I was feeling nervous and shaky, but I looked at him. He leaned in and kissed me. Just before his lips actually touched mine, I made a little noise of alarm, which didn't seem to surprise him because he didn't stop. I was tense at first, but I melted into it. I remember the overwhelming feeling being–––oddly and appropriately–––curiosity.

When I pulled back to look at him I saw a tear running down his cheek.

I said, "Why did you do that?"

I don't remember anything else, except that I kept waking up afterward and thinking of the dream, and then having trouble getting back to sleep.

I want to know more about this. But he won't talk to me.




Damien frightened me yesterday as well. Maybe it's just me and the state that I'm in, or maybe he did it deliberately, I don't know. I was holding up a sign that had fallen down and I'd asked him to get me a poster so I could reach the ceiling and put the tape back up. He went to get me one, then turned around and looked at me.

"I'm such an idiot," he said, walking toward me. His eyes were fixed on mine. "Right in front of me, the whole time..."

He leaned in close to me and reached an arm around me, and I actually gasped. Then he pulled out a poster from the display rack directly behind me.

"Nacho Libre posters! I forgot they were there," he said, and fixed the sign while I punched my heart to get it to start again. I'd been so scared.

"Golly jeez, Damien," I said. "I thought you were gonna..."

"You thought I was about to do something drastic?" he said, grinning.

"Yeah, drastic."

He laughed. "You okay?"

"Ask me again in a few minutes."

I had been certain he was about to kiss me.




Is this just the season? Are my hormones being thrown out of whack? Just yesterday I found myself saying the most tarty things to a young man at my counter, I surprised myself. He gave me a stack of single bills to pay for his record and I said, "That's a lot of singles, you're not a stripper, are you?" and when he burst into giggles and said no he wasn't, I said, "What a crime."

What is wrong with me? I'm old enough for this, goddamnit, it's not like I have to censor myself, but still. Yikes. I can't even blame L___ for this, though I'm certainly trying.

I dressed up really sexy yesterday and he didn't say a single word to me. Today I'll dress like a hobo and maybe he'll ask me out again.


Fellas, help me out... why is he doing this?

"The window’s wide open, African trees, bent over backwards in a hurricane breeze, not a word of goodbye, not even a note, she’s gone with the man in the long black coat, somebody seen him, hangin’ around, at the old dance hall, on the outskirts of town, he looked into her eyes, when she stopped him to ask, if he wanted to dance, he had a face like a mask, somebody said from the bible he quote, there was dust on the man in the long black coat..."
-- Joan Osborne: "Man In The Long Black Coat"



Every time I see a bird that's been hit by a car, I get a little shock of horror, like a quick jab to the rib cage. When I see other animals by the side of the road, it's always sad, but it never gives me the same feeling. The lie there on the street, limp and broken, in such a peaceful posture that it's difficult to feel horrified. Birds have such complex little bodies that when they're hit, you can see how their bones were broken.

You can see them on the road, their hollow, brittle bones snapped into grotesque positions that -- perhaps most terrible of all -- do not look unnatural. Wings up, fluttering in the breeze created by passing cars, they still look alive in a way, though you know they aren't. This is what creates that feeling of sadness and shock, when you can see the potential for life, the motion, the anima, even though you know it isn't really there.

The dead birds, when I see them, look as if they're trying to fly from the pavement.

It's beautiful and terrible, and it makes me frustrated for them. They're long gone by the time I see them, but somehow, each time, it looks like they're still trying.




My life, though good, has become a series of mysteries. It might just be part of the age I'm at, where everything has more than one meaning, and love moves like a shadow in the background of every place and person. I am finding it so difficult to trust anybody, though that seems to be the only thing I want to do right now.

I want to be open and free with myself, I want to be comfortable with at least one of them (there are so many of them -- more each time I look) and I can feel it beginning, but it frightens me.

This is an autumn feeling. I've been having a lot of autumn feelings lately. Maybe it's the new cardigan I'm wearing.

And whatever's happening with L___... I can't stop trying to put the pieces together. Each day he gets more confusing, and even worse: so do I. I'm only beginning to realize that I have feelings on the matter as well. I'd been so concerned with trying to figure out what his were that I forgot to pay any attention to my own. Mine, at the moment, are just as confounding and nebulous as trying to get an idea of his. I keep trying to stop, but I can't. I feel as if I should know better.

At work, he'll spend two days being talkative and playful and even flirtatious, if you can call it that, and then three days acting as if I'm not there at all. I wore a schoolgirl skirt on Thursday and he wouldn't look at me or speak to me for an hour. For some reason, this satisfied me. Every single person I worked with that day made a comment about my outfit, except for him. For some reason, this satisfied me as well.

It was a very short skirt. At one point I dropped something in front of him (accidentally, of course). He looked at it. I looked at it. He looked at me. I looked at him.

"This is going to be delicate," I said. "I'm not practiced at this."

"I can tell," he said. He was leaning back with his arms crossed. He made no move to pick it up himself, nor to look away while I did.

I lowered myself into a crouch, just barely managing to not fall over, and retrieved the object.

"Good job."




You're not as anti-social as you'd like everyone to believe. I want to say to him. In spite of yourself, you want to be around people, you want human interaction, you want to need people, and be needed. You try to hide it, but I can tell. I know you have a heart beating somewhere under all those layers of black you wear.

I know he's frustrated that everyone is trying to figure him out, everyone has a theory about him. I wish I could say I'm any different, but I'm not. I want to figure him out too. I wonder if I'm ashamed of that impulse. It's not as if I only want to understand him so I can say I was the one to do it, I cracked the L___ code. That's not it at all. I find myself really wanting to be a part of his life.

I want to know his tiny little Japanese mom and his younger brother, I want to know if he told either or both of them about me, that I was the girl he took out those times, I want to know if they know who I am when they come to the store. I want to know what his room looks like and if he held hands with his girlfriend in public and if he had a puppy when he was little. I want to have long conversations with him, I want to get into debates, I want to know that he couldn't just take or leave me the way he can with everyone else.


It will never stop being strange that he seemed to want to know me as well. That he asked to spend time with me not once but twice. That he hasn't mentioned it since. That no matter how many excuses I invent for why he'd have ever asked me out, I can't come up with anything plausible that points away from his genuinely wanting to spend time with me. That he behaved so differently outside of work. That now that we're back at work he's exactly how he was before. I'll think of things he did before he asked me out, little things he said or ways he acted, that take on a totally different meaning now. That will never stop haunting me.

I will most likely never figure this out.

The suspense is killing me.




He wears this delicious cologne, and I can't place it. You'd think it would be odd, a guy like him wearing cologne, you'd think it would clash with his personality, but it suits him so well.

He didn't always wear it. There was a long time, after I met him, that he didn't. He's only started wearing it these past few weeks, ever since we went to Ala Moana together. It's a subtle, spicy scent, impossible to describe but easy to remember. When he began wearing it again, I remembered it at once, and remembered how disappointed I was in myself when I first smelled it, because I liked the cologne so much, and disliked the person that wore it.

I haven't memorized the scent yet, but I'm almost to that point. I can very nearly call it up in my mind when I'm in my room or the car, but it always slips away just before it gets to me. Today, on the street in Waikele, I caught it, just to the left of a shop window. I stopped walking and tried to find it again, but it was gone.

I can smell it before he even gets near me, and it lingers for a moment after he leaves.

I am not even romanticizing... this is how it goes.



Who is this man?

He has this unpredictable barometric personality and I never know how to keep up with it. His mood is subject to change without warning from clear to stormy and it will leave you windswept, wondering what you did wrong. Then other times he seems gentle, amused, interested, as if there's some secret, wonderful reason he wanted to spend the day with you. When this happens, I enjoy his company. When it changes and feels like he doesn't want me around, I wonder why the hell I'm hanging out with someone I can't stand anyway. It is so strange and often exhausting.

He took me to the Keeamokou location of our record shop, where I had never been before. As it was our flagship store, everything was larger and better organized than ours, except -- I noted with no small amount of pride -- the porn section.

I said to L___, "Well, at least our dicks are bigger than theirs."

We ran into a few people we'd met before, including Cody, the boy I'd talked to all day just before L___ asked me out, and Charis's friend Ashlyn who, as I hear it, called Charis to report the L___-and-Kit-together sighting the moment we left.

We were waiting at a crosswalk with a few other people when L___leaned in and murmured, "Remind me to tell you something disgusting later."

"Ah well," I said, grinning. "If it's disgusting, you can be certain I will remind you."

"That guy," said L___, pointing out an older man once we were far enough away. "Was just checking out your cleavage."

"Really!" I said, delighted. "Did he seem impressed?"

"He seemed interested..."

"I don't mind, really," I said. "Looking's free."

"And it's understandable, I mean, he's an older guy, probably hasn't gotten any in a while, and you're a young woman with..."

I looked at him. "Bodacious ta tas?"

"An expansive bosom..."

"What a nice way of putting it," I smiled, entirely satisfied. "Nah, to me, it's not disgusting unless he does something disgusting. I mean, if someone I didn't know, no matter who they are, walked up and gave me a swat on the ass or something, that would be completely uncool."

"Come on, if Adrien Brody did that, if he did something like just pinch you somewhere... like on the elbow... what would you do?"

"I don't know," I said, giggling. "Get the vapors, probably."

"The vapors?"

"Yeah, y'know, 'why Mr. Darcy, I believe I'm getting the vapors...'"

I don't know why I said 'Mr. Darcy', I guess I was just groping for a name and it came more quickly than any others. I thought it would go unnoticed, considering our topic of conversation.

"Mr. Darcy..." said L___, in a prolonged, considering tone, almost like a sigh. "I never did like that story."

I looked at him. At the time, I was the only one who got the joke.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," I said. "Most men don't like Jane Austen. It's a time and a culture they just can't relate to in the least."

"I don't think it's a matter of not being able to relate to it."

"Maybe you relate to it a little too well?"

"No. I just never liked the story."

I sighed and left it at that. Never depend on L___ to satisfy your literary sensibilities.

At some point our conversation lead him to say, "Look at us: why are we here? Why are we here? Why are we here?"

"Oh golly, L___, you're not going philosophical on me, are you?"

"There's nothing wrong with that. Besides, it's a valid question. Why are we here?"

"You drove us here."

"If you must be literal about it..."

"Oh yes, I much prefer being literal," I said. "Otherwise you start analyzing, attaching meaning to things, and we're far better off without it."

To own the truth, I was absolutely petrified of discussing our situation in any concrete terms -- even to discuss it at all, which we had not done. We've acted thusfar as if going out together like this is totally normal, something we do all the time, when in fact no one I know has ever been anywhere with L___ outside of work.

Then, an hour or so later, he did it again. Out of nowhere he said, Why are we here? Why are we here?" forming the sentences with emphasis on different words to give it different meaning.

"You've brought that up twice now," I said. "Is there a particular answer you're looking for?"

"I have no answers, only possibilities."

I tried not to stumble where I walked. Possibilities. To me, that's heavy talk. To me, even acknowledging the fact that we're in the same breathing area is heavy talk. I tried not to think about it.

"Well!" I said in a tone that was possibly too brisk and chipper. "Life is absolutely full of possibilities."

"Ah, but you don't like getting philosophical."

"There's a time and a place..."

At another point he made a reference to me going on a date with someone and without even thinking about it I said, "Ah no, I don't date."

He looked up at me but I didn't look back. He said, "You mean you don't date yet."

"No, I don't date at all."

"Not yet."

That is among the many things that keeps floating back to me. I remember also one day, weeks ago, when I was offering to help L___ in the back and he told me I could stay if I felt like it. I said, "Well, do you want me?"

I had meant that as "Do you want my help?" but L___ laughed at me.

"Jeez, Kit, the way you say that... I'll have to complain to Dave that you're distracting me from my work. And Dave will just be cracking jokes the whole time... he'd say, 'Kit, distracting you? Come on, you'd be perfect for each other!'"

I never had any clue why L___ said that. At the time I just snorted and said, "Yeah, perfect like a nosebleed..."

He and I both were only too delighted to change subjects.

Things like that really make me question what he means and what he's thinking. I tell myself not to overthink it, knowing how ridiculous it is to chew on an issue until it's raw, but I can't help it: he's so strange. Sometimes he acts sweet and funny and almost like he feels something peculiar for me, and then other times he's so cold and severe, he can turn on me in a second and I'll feel like his good opinion of me is gone forever. He'll stop smiling when he talks, give single-word answers, he'll turn frosty and I won't know how to circumvent it.

When we'd explored everything and gotten back to the car, we both talked about staying out a while, but neither of us could think of anything in town. We went back to his house. He parked by the side of the road.

I said, "Did you have a horrible time?"

"No. Did you?"

"No. I had a good time."

"I had a... a time."

I winced. I know L___ is the last person in the world to say sincere, sweet things, but this sounded as if he was about to tell me I have a really nice personality.

"Oh dear, that's awful," I said.

"No, it's fine."

I gave him the mixed CDs I'd made and said, "Happy birthday.' It was the first time either of us had mentioned it. He wouldn't even have told me if I hadn't found out on my own. He did exactly what I thought he'd do: looked at me and said no, too embarrassed to take them. I told him to quit being fussy because I didn't even spend any money on them.

He read the songs off the back, saying, "That's not surprising... also not surprising..." as he read. He said, "I wish you hadn't given me these, but I'll accept them with maturity."

"Finally."

We looked at each other a moment, both standing outside my car, then said, "Okay bye" and left.



This entire week at work he hasn't spoken to me unless other people are around. He's back to being silent and sarcastic and refusing to make eye contact. I don't understand why he does this. I thought things had changed.

I just want to take him by the shoulders and shake him and yell, "Pick a mood, damnit! Why do you have to be so cold?! Why can't you just treat me like I matter, acknowledge my friendship, act like you give a shit if I stay or go?! Why do you have to treat me like you just barely tolerate my presence and then turn around and ask me to go places with you?! Why can't you say what you think, just once, why won't you even allow me to guess, how hard is it to just TELL ME?!"

I am sick of trying to figure boys. He is not the only boy acting strange, but he certainly puts them all to shame. What would a normal person do right now in my place? What's okay?




I took a leap. For the first time. I've never done this before, but as L___ was leaving on Saturday I called out to him and asked if there was anything he wanted to do on Monday.

"I'm flying out on Tuesday, that's why I ask. I wouldn't see you for a while."

He made some banter about where I was going and why, and then he said, "Well since I just bought a car, I'm more poverty-stricken than usual, so I shouldn't. Thanks for the offer though."

"Yeah, no problem. Okay, bye."



"Bye."

"I try my best to understand you but you still mystify, I want to know why, I pick myself up off the ground to have you knock me back down, again and again, and when I ask you to explain, you say, 'you gotta be cruel to be kind, in the right measure, cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign, cruel to be kind means that I love you, baby, you gotta be cruel to be kind'..."
-- Letters To Cleo: "Cruel To Be Kind"



Somehow I get the feeling that none of this will ever make sense, not in a year, not in twenty years. The mystery of L___ is perhaps not meant to be solved, and considering that thusfar each answer has lead to at least three questions, I shall have to get used to wondering.

Monday was our follow-up appointment (as I'm avoiding the term "date" like the plague and have no capacity for a more useful term, I'll have to treat it medically), and even though I spent several hours in his company, I left more confounded than I came. I've no idea what his opinion of me could be at this moment... he could be picking out a ring or resolving never to see me again. I couldn't say.

He wanted to get an early start -- which, under any circumstances, is horrifying news to me -- so against my better judgment I set out around eight in the morning. I once said to Jono that no man on earth could get me up before noon when I wasn't being forced, with the possible exception of Adrien Brody and even then, no more than twice. The fact that I agreed to meet with L___ for breakfast a flimsy two hours after my usual bed time must prove that my curiosity far overpowers my romantic sensibilities.

I never made it to breakfast, however, because as anyone who's been in a car with me will tell you, I am not only a pitiable driver, but even worse with directions. I'd been to L___'s house only once, the night I drove him home after our original appointment, and it was dark and I was exhausted and he had me drop him off by the street rather than in an actual driveway. When L___ had asked during the week if I was certain I could find his house again I'd "psssshhh"ed him, waved my hand, said "no problem", all the time suspecting that I was in trouble.

And I ended up in trouble. Half an hour late, hyperventilating on the phone to Gracie and Carol from work (the record shop is the only place I really know... it was all I could think of in a pickle) who, after disguising their shock that I was trying to reach L___ of all people, gave me directions on how to get out of the strange Waipahu plaza I found myself in and guide me back toward Waipio by taking me back to the Waimalu exit, not to be confused with the Waikele exit.

Sometimes I hate the Polynesian languages.

I tried to be a good tragically-late-and-scatterbrained-non-date and call L___ to tell him I may have run into the tiniest of problems and wouldn't be as prompt as I'd hoped, but the number he gave me was answered by an angry Korean lady who insisted I had the wrong number and hung up on me three times.

After an hour and a lot of wrong turns, I found the correct street, which posed another problem. I had no clue which house was his and he'd be a fool to not have given up and gone inside by now, so my only hope was to walk up and down the street with a big sign over my head and hope he'd be looking out a window. I had walked a few feet up the sidewalk when a man in black emerged, Johnny Cash-like, from around a corner.

"I never thought I'd be so happy to see you!" I called out. I repressed the urge to run to him and hug him out of relief. As we walked back to my car, I explained what happened.

"This just shows how things work out," he said. "I waited for you for about forty minutes and I thought, 'she stood me up!' So I went back in my house, but as soon as I did I thought, 'if you go back out there now, she'll be there waiting for you'."

"Good thing you listen to your creepy inner voice," I said. I usually throw things at mine.

I made him do the driving to Ala Moana. It was L___ that suggested we go to Hawaii's Biggest Fucking Mall after he'd heard I had never been, possibly cloaking the entire thing with the explanation that he was educating me in the history of the island. Which he did on the way there, pointing out interesting nuggets of fact, like which behemoth ship was the Pride of Hawai'i and when it had been built, and how to my left I'd see what was once the tallest structure on the whole island, the Aloha Tower.

"Which one is that?" I peered out the window.

"That big tower that says 'ALOHA' on it."

"Ah yes. Indeed."

When we reached Ala Moana I was, naturally, surprised by its enormousfuckingmallness. It is rich and beautiful and interesting and posh but it is, essentially, just a big ass mall. L___, having been here eight hundred times (the kid was born here, he's run out of things to explore), seemed happy to show me something I'd never seen before, but I think the main reason for doing this was just our conversation, which there is always just enough of between the two of us. We even had fun.

He seems to have this funny, almost charming habit of bumping directly into people when we're walking together. I don't know if he does this all the time but he's crashed into, at the very least, four people in my presence. I always act as if I haven't noticed.

Even stranger is his quirky little L___ way of trying to compliment me once in a great while, which is always an awkward, pitiable thing, that I can only think the better of him for, even as I'm shaking my head from the roundabout of it. This is like the time he told me he liked the makeup I decided to wear one day, he said it reminded him of Cirque du Soliel. He tried to assure me it was a good thing, and then told me it looked like I'd just come out of a tunnel, it was all wooshy and stuff. A L___ compliment is a strange, strange thing to receive.

"So I hear you go to a gym?" he said with a big smile meant to communicate what an amusing concept this was for him.

"That's right."

"Why, do you think you're fat, or something?"

I laughed. "Yep."

"Okay, so what's the real reason?"

"The real reason," I said. "Is that I do not have a Beyoncé body, and I'd like one."

"Beyoncé? No. She's vile."

"Boy, you crazy!"

"She's completely self-obsessed."

"That may be, but she's built."

"It's okay, Kit. You don't have to tell me the real reason you go to the gym. I won't press you."

"That is the real reason."

"It's fine, really, you could just say you don't want to tell me."

I sighed. Another kooky little mutant L___ compliment. I get the impression he doesn't do this a lot.




He took me into a Japanese supermarket, talking as excitedly as L___ can about how -- once he's fluent in Japanese -- he's going to go there all the time, just to talk to people. He walked so quickly through the market half of the store (positively crackling with exciting and mysterious things) that I had to grab his sleeve and make him slow down so I could look at everything. He took me to a section where there were many delicious teapots. I fell in love with them all.

We walked together through the mall, took a good deal of escalators (which made me nervous -- L___ said, "Get used to it, we'll probably do it about seventy-six more times today" to which I replied, "Under different circumstances, I'd love to hear that sentence...") and the whole time he and I wove thick tapestries of conversation too long and involved for me to remember and record. Before I knew where I was, he'd led me to a Williams Sonoma store. The poshest cookware I'd ever heard of.

"Oh why have you brought me here?" I said, pausing at the doorway.

He grinned and went inside.

Thou devil, thou demon, thou art loosed...

L___ knows about my obsession with cookware. I told him once. I even told him about how I wanted to look at cookware with someone on a date -- were I ever to go on a date. As I have learned, L___ never forgets. He was aware that, for me, it amounted to more than a mild, tepid interest. At the time, I was too entranced with everything to wonder if this made it a date, if this had, in fact, been his plan. I didn't care.

I had never seen so many pretty things in my life. Everything glimmered and had exciting uses, even if I had no idea what they were. I loved it all. I wanted to stay for hours just looking at everything.

L___ approached me. "What do you think?"

"There is a butter knife over there," I said in a hushed voice. "For sixteen dollars. Sixteen dollars! I'm in love."

"You should get it."

"I can't get it, it's a sixteen dollar butter knife."

"That's exactly why you should get it."

I giggled at his marvelous absurdity. This wasn't a side of him I was used to.

"I can't actually buy anything from here," I said. "I have to do something really spectacular to deserve it. If I, like... save twenty-five percent of the rainforest or... perform emergency brain surgery on a wounded rescue dog... then I can get one thing."

"Seems a little harsh."

"No, it's exactly right."

He watched me toy with the espresso cups, giggle over the melon ballers, talk about the knives on display, which ones I've used and which are supposed to be the best. Sometimes he seemed amused, sometimes not. Hot and cold is simply his pattern. I left the store feeling giddy.





Part two will come later. For now, I must to bed.

I have a little scrap of paper sitting on my moon chair, hastily ripped from a notebook and scrawled upon, with his phone number in his spiky, twitchy handwriting. It's just sitting there, on my moon chair, not living up to its potential but not being thrown out either.

What do I do with it? Is there a point in adding him to my phone book? Should I put the paper on my desk along with the five hundred other scraps of paper with movie and song titles, notes to myself, ideas for cartoons, minor sketches, only to get lost? Should I tape it to my wall under my vintage Hawai'i postcards? Should I leave it exactly where it is on my moon chair on top of the green elephant pillow, stationary until things change enough for it to be either disregarded or put to use?

It's right there on the pillow. Some numbers that, when dialed, reach a line that will have him at the other end, the potential to connect our voices even if we don't say anything at all. I think my cat stepped on it.

I have no reason to call the number. I see him at work every single day. It's just strange that I have it. No more strange than anything else that happened that night. I don't think I'm ready to move the paper yet.




We took my car -- a condition he warned me about in advance, while assuring me it had nothing to do with why he asked me -- because his had been stolen a few days prior. I always knew that the day my car was at its messiest would be the day a boy unexpectedly joined me in it. The car was crammed full of CDs and beach towels and a busted headlight and gym clothes and some sand. I started shoveling off the passenger seat, flinging everything in the back, mortified at the fact that one of my bras was among the flotsam I had to throw in the back.

We drove across the street to Denny's, the simplest, easiest, most noncommittal place I could think of. The entire time, my heart was pounding. I was so anxious. Was this going to be awful, had I made a huge mistake, were we both about to have the worst, most awkward night in history?

There was no more reason for me to be anxious than ever is when I get this way, but I was shaking all over and my face was burning and my hands would not keep still. I'd forced my mind to relax, but I couldn't calm my body down.

I ordered pancakes, he ordered eggs over easy, and we talked. With L___, conversation is never a struggle, and never bland. He's intelligent and interesting and funny, so despite his being possibly the most intimidating person I know, talking with him is always a fascinating experience.

One of the things we ended up discussing was how he never understood why guys got embarrassed and quiet when their women called them at work, never wanting anyone to overhear. He said he used to work at this diner and when his girlfriend-at-the-time called him he adored it, he'd say, "Hey baby, what's going on? Just called to say you miss me?" He said she loved it, and it made all the girls he worked with titter and go fluttery. He said he used to grin at them and say, "Jealous?"

I laughed so hard at hearing this come from L___, of all people, that I nearly snorted my soda up my nose.

I said, "Please tell me that's how you normally act and you've just been subdued ever since I met you for personal reasons, and at any moment you'll revert to your old ways."

Typically obtuse, he said, "Why, how have I changed?"

"You do not strike me as the type to call anyone 'baby'. Matter of fact, you don't strike me as the romantic type at all, but that's not meant to be an insult."

He shrugged and talked about how the more familiar you get with a person, the less you call them by their proper name.

He had pushed up his sleeves while we were having dinner and I tried not to stare at his arms. He always wears long sleeves, no matter what the weather is like, and so I had seen his wrists only once before, when I'd caught a glimpse of him washing the windows with his sleeves rolled up. I think at the time I actually blushed at seeing his wrists and forearms... it felt, at the time, as though I was seeing something extremely personal.

He seemed comfortable, much more comfortable than I was. We bickered about the check and I pulled out a twenty that he refused to touch. He got us separate checks and called me devious when I set my money on the counter and told him to handle it while I went to the loo.

Almost as soon as we were outside he suggested staying out a while, finding something else to do, if I was up for it. He mentioned Jelly's, the marvelously ghetto and snobby underground record store that I had never been to. It was exactly as I'd pictured it, with the unexpected addition of a library of used books. He and I parted ways and looked around, bumping into each other now and then and stealing looks at what the other was holding.

I found the children's book section and planted myself there. I'd been looking lazily for a used book shop for a long time, and was thrilled to see so many excellent books for four dollars or something ludicrous like that. He came to find me and I was practically frothing with excitement, going on about different books and artists and how I couldn't believe they carried this one and look at this and I kept putting books in his hands and, to my surprise, he didn't disregard them at all. He seemed genuinely interested.

Some change came over him then, I think. I can only really see it in retrospect, but it was noticeable. He became gentler, I think, less openly disdainful, less harsh and blunt. He seemed pleased to be exactly where he was, pleased to listen to me jabber about my favorite children's books, pleased to watch me crouch down and twiddle through the titles, biting at my bottom lip or my fingertips.

He stopped being sarcastic and cynical and stoic, stopped even emanating that vibe. I felt something coming from him that was positively human.

He found a book from when he was little, an ancient Chinese legend that he used to read all the time. He said I remind him of the book because the main female character is called Ching Kit. He flipped through to show me.

"That's our hero..." he said. "And that's Ching Kit, his lady love."

"She's beautiful," I said.

I will go back on Sunday and buy that book.

When he opened the pages to show me, he took a step closer to me and without even thinking about it I took a step back. I've never been that deliberately close to L___ and somehow moving away one more inch seemed like something I should do, or was expected to do. Once I realized I'd done it I moved a tiny bit closer to him, though I don't know why I did that any more than I know why I moved away to begin with.

We looked at books until the store closed. He asked if there was anything else I wanted to do, but I confessed to being completely wiped out. He agreed, and I drove him home.

On the way, and more than once during the evening, he'd suggested different places we could go together in the future -- so casually, with not even a fluttered eyelash, that I only realized later that he was talking about going out again. He would mention some place, I would say I've never been, he would say, "We must go sometime." So simple. Before I'd even noticed it, Monday had been agreed on to go to Ala Moana. He mentioned getting an early start and I said, "Depends on what you mean by early. Anything after noon should be fine."

"After noon?" he laughed at me. "Jeez, I was thinking, like, seven."

"In the morning?" I said. "Holy bollocks, boy, you've got to be joking!"

"No, we could go get breakfast. Breakfast out is awesome."

"Sure it is, but it's even more awesome when the sun is warm."

"Kit, the sun is always warm, we live in Hawai'i, for chrissake."

He's serious, I thought. He wants to go out again. This is... new and wholly unexpected.

Parked by the side of the road outside his home, I felt wave after wave of panic and anxiety overtake me. Is this a moment of truth are we going to have to actually acknowledge that we just spent time together is this even a date does my car smell what do normal people do when this happens are we going to, like, hug or something?

There have been only three instances of physical contact between myself and L___, and I remember them because they have all been so rare and so strange. The first time, I briefly touched his elbow to warn him that I was squeezing past him. The second time, he poked me in the arm to get my attention while I was daydreaming. The third time was when he tapped my foot with his foot just before he asked me to dinner.

Luckily, he seemed just as eager to ignore the situation as I was. He gave me directions to get home, asked if I wanted to exchange phone numbers, made some light teasing remark about my handwriting, then said "See you later," and exited stage left.

I shook all the way home, and did not stop for at least an hour afterward. I kept saying to myself, "How strange, how strange... what a puzzle..."




I can't even understand what to think of him. He is the most peculiar person I've ever known. I hardly see him as a human. He's so fierce, so solemn, so intelligent, so odd, so unpredictable... what could possibly have made him ask to spend time with me? To even request doing so again soon? What in the world can be going on in his head? And what's going on in mine?

He's handsome, of course, and funny and smart and interesting... but (apart from the fact that my heart is already far too occupied as it is with disinterested parties) to look at him romantically only causes severe pangs of awkwardness and vertigo. To think of holding hands with him, hugging him goodbye, kissing him, Heaven forbid, is so apocalyptically weird that I can't even entertain the thought, not even for half a second.

I used to disdain him. I used to be convinced that he disdained me. How can it be so easy for him to turn all my perceptions on their head? How can it simply be his nature?



Today I saw him at work and somehow the only thing I'd ever rightly predicted only managed to confound me more. I don't know why I was so certain he wouldn't say anything to me today, but for once, I was right. I was in completely flustered spirits, having no idea what to do or how to act, but I tried to be normal and wait for him to speak. He made eye contact accidentally, but broke it at once. Through the whole day I would steal glances at him and I don't believe I was just imagining it when I so often thought I saw him look away from stealing glances at me.

He said nothing to me at all, except to ask if I made it home all right, and after that he reverted to ignoring me as he's done for the past few weeks, with the only exception being that night.

What do I think of this? I have given up even trying to make any sense. At this point I can only sit at a distance and watch these things unfold to whatever strange and unpredictable end. At this point I can only allow myself to be confused, and just act the best I can.

I shall go to bed at once.

How strange. How peculiar. How completely unfathomable.

I think I may have gone on a date last night. With L___.

Of all the strange things to happen... of all the ridiculous times for it... of all the people I know, or have ever known... how very very odd.

Yesterday was one of the most surreal days I've ever had, from the moment I woke up to the very end. I woke up at four in the morning to get to work by five-thirty, a schedule I have never kept in my life. Driving in Hawaii before the sun has even begun to rise is a beautiful experience, and I felt a little enclosed, a little protected, a little special, though I can't for the life of me imagine why. The edges of the horizon behind the black palms started to turn green and blue, and I wanted it to stop right there. I wanted the sun not to rise that day, no more than it was right at that moment, and then slip back down around eight.

Yesterday was inventory day at my record shop, so nearly everyone came in around five-thirty and we spent the day counting every single thing we had in the store, with the knowledge that it would be about twelve hours before we were done (but not knowing that twelve hours would become fifteen hours before we left).

Seeing my coworkers at such an early hour, all whining and sleepy and huddled around the cooler full of iced cappuccinos, made me feel somewhat more connected with them, with a home-based version of them, the same way I felt in school when everyone had to stay late because of a snow storm that was too dangerous to send us home in, or when we had a special day that allowed everyone to come in wearing their pajamas.

There were some people from the other store helping out, including a young man named Cody, a Loss Prevention agent from Keeamokou. He was funny and sassy and cool, all purple hair and tattoos, great opinions and a talent for expressing them. Cody and I got to spend the day working next to each other, so we talked a lot and got to know each other.

We talked all sorts of nonsense -- music and movies and politics and psychology. It was flavorful. We flirted lazily but deliberately, in all likelihood just because it was an element we felt comfortable in. We connected on that cool, heightened, personal level that generally only lasts for the duration of that first time the people in question are in each other's company.

When we took our break, Cody, L___ and myself all sat on the sidewalk outside and ate rice and veggies and shoyu chicken and blackened steak off of paper plates we balanced on our laps, and we talked about music, how music is changing and people's tastes are changing, attitudes changing, how there's no such thing as a modern classic, how people seem afraid to reach their full potential because after that's over there's nothing left to look forward to, how styles are melding into infuriating subcategories that people just use to make them sound cooler. Cody stopped and laughed, and said that if there had been a camera on us, it would be a Kevin Smith film.

As the end of the day approached, I wondered if Cody would say anything about the great conversations we'd had, or if he'd ask for my number or offer to hang out later, something. It would be silly to spend the day having intelligent and deep conversations with a girl and say nothing at all, but when he disappeared around eight in the evening, I found myself shrugging it off with a bare minimum of disappointment. I believe I'm at a stage now where I can take or leave the boys in my life -- with only one exception.

When everything was finally finished and we got permission to go home, L___ seemed careful to stand next to me, and time his own departure with mine. With anyone else I might have made some exhausted conversation about what a long day it was, or how I couldn't wait to get home and sleep for three days, but L___ is even less fond of small talk than myself, emphatically so, and I chose, as usual, to remain silent until he spoke.

He asked what I had planned next. My real plan, since I had been working from pre-dawn to post-dusk, was to go home, collapse on my bed, and not move until I was good and damn well ready. But for some reason I said, "Nothing, you?"

"Would you like to go get something to eat?" he asked.

I was thrown. I'd imagined once or twice what would happen should he ever ask such a thing (considering what everyone I know has said about him, it would be impossible not to imagine it) and I always supposed I would be too shocked and intrigued to say no. As fascinated as I am with different people and as curious as I am about who he is, I always imagined I would have to say yes, if for no other reason than to learn about his character and find out what on earth could have motivated him to ask such a thing.

He is such an oddity. How could I possibly pass up an opportunity like this?

I said yes.




More to come later. My manicotti is just out of the oven. I will leave you with the long-promised photo...

( my mark... )

So you know when you do the right thing, but you do it for all the wrong reasons? I think stepping back was just wordsmithing for running away. I'm too smart and too capable to be a coward about this. I'll manage it, and no one else should have to suffer in the process. Apologies for masking my fear with logic. Apologies for making you feel abandoned, if you felt that way.



Not Crazy, Just A Little Misunderstood: The strangest thing is happening with L____ at work. He is becoming, of all things, my greatest source of comfort. How this happened so suddenly, I have no idea, but I'm beginning to understand his character in ways I never imagined. Has he grown on me? Have his manners changed at all since the beginning, or was it me that changed? Was it our opinions of each other that grew into something worth keeping, or just the rumor that everyone seemed to believe but the two people concerned?

It began when the man came into the shop, the man who had slipped me his number and email address before I could lie about being betrothed to a mad scientist with legions of mutants at his disposal. The milk_chocolate_creamy_gentleman@ et cetera guy. He eyed me up and down as he came in, and I shuddered. I called to L____ when he passed by, and begged him to help me.

L____ -- always free to be amused by the world, since he takes so little part in it -- was positively tickled when I told him the story. He asked where the guy was, and I pointed to him, planted in the hip hop section and listening to the new E-40.

"What do you want me to do, kick his ass?" L____ asked.

"No, just... don't leave me alone with him!" I turned red when he laughed. I said, "Can you just stay with me until he goes away?"

I don't know what possessed me to ask L____ of all people, but he was happy to do it, and didn't ridicule me as I thought he would. He stationed himself next to my counter, leaning against it with his arms crossed, and alternating his gaze from me to the milk chocolate guy. Creepy guys always make me nervous (and, at this point, L____ made me nervous as well) so my hands were shaking too badly to even hold a pencil. When I mentioned this, he actually said "awwww", something so out of character that it shocked me into calm for a moment.

His presence ended up being almost soothing. I felt safer. He made me laugh, which he has always had a talent for, even when I disliked him, and was determined not to find him amusing or cool in the least.

One of our other coworkers tried to call him away to do something, but L____ said, "I can't, I'm on guard duty."

Finally, the milk chocolate guy left, giving me nothing but a salacious wink on his way out. I mouthed "That's him!" to L____.

He nodded, then said, "I could have taken him."



Only a little while ago, I came into work in a frame of mind I had never been in before. I felt exhausted to the point of crying, piled high with emotions -- both my own and others' -- that I could neither ignore nor handle. I felt as if I were completely disconnected from my body, just embers left over that have only enough energy to glow and ash. I didn't want to work, I didn't want to think, I didn't want to talk or be friendly or help people or be patient. I wanted to hide away and be unconscious.

Very rarely in my life have I felt so very dead. There is something, I believe, beyond being heartbroken. When pain stops reminding you that you are alive, you become an entirely different creature. I didn't even have the strength to be frightened for myself.

Once again, and as strange an idea as it is, L____ became a comforting presence to me. I worked beside him in the back, shoulder to shoulder, but completely silent. I found myself preferring it. He didn't torture me with questions or pointless babble, was silent and solitary as usual, and that felt like a soft pillow after a headache. It was safe, and comfortable. It felt as if I was included in his personal bubble, used to distance himself from the noise of the outside world.

I liked being allowed to be silent. I liked not having to smile and talk, that he allowed me to shut out the noise and say nothing at all, but he kept me company at the same time. It helped quiet the storm a little. I was so grateful to him.

Within moments, of course, it was over. People came into the back and started talking and joking and shouting at the top of their voice, and my supervisor told me off for helping L____ instead of working out on the sales floor. The quiet bubble of protection I had was shattered. I muttered to L____, "I've gotta go... sorry", and practically sprinted from the room.

Later when he passed me by, I admitted to him that I really preferred working in the back with him, because it was quieter. He didn't make fun of me for saying something potentially affectionate, though I could tell he wanted to, and he smiled and said, "Shucks, Kit... well, I understand. The preference is dually noted and taken to heart."

I was surprised. With anyone else at the store, he'd most likely have been sarcastic or cold. It made me feel a little special that -- in spite of the both of us -- he may be getting used to me. I considered that maybe we were starting to understand each other. A frightening, but not entirely unwelcome prospect. His personality seemed to be exactly what I needed at that moment, and even stranger, he seemed to sense it. He is continually surprising me.

I was taking my break when he pulled up a chair next to me. He asked what I was doing. Writing in my journal. Why at work? he asked. Wasn't I afraid that someone would read it? I said not in the least. He was quiet a while.

Knowing that he shuts off at once if I ask him questions about himself, I asked, "Would you prefer me to talk about myself?"

"If you like."

So for a while I just talked, and he let me. I talked about my life and how simplicity was so impossible to attain, how impossible everything seemed to be, how I wanted to just leave everything and everyone behind, live under a rock in the middle of nowhere with no one around to make things complicated.

I think it must have been the first time he saw that side of me, and realized that I was, in part, like him.

After a moment of silence he said, "I'm sorry, Kit."

I looked at him. "Whatever for?"

"It isn't that I don't like you, I just don't like..."

"Talking to me?" I supplied, smiling.

"If you'll let me finish..."

"Sorry."

And he started to talk, and I listened. I listened with every scrap of me, because when he spoke I realized that I had been waiting to hear it. He was allowing me to understand, something I had been frustrated with since meeting him. He told me about how he finds it impossible to tell a person anything about him that might be even a little personal, because if he does he will invariably obsess over it for weeks afterward, beat himself up over it, tell himself he should never have said it. He deals with this by being blunt with people, cold and even rude, telling people it's none of their business where he grew up, if he likes his job, what color is his favorite. Just go away and do not ask. Don't ask why.

I swear I could hear the frustration in his voice, and the anxiety of telling me even this. This was enormous and unexpected, the divulging of why he is the way he is, and I felt awed and strangely elated that he was telling me something so personal. Had he said this to anyone else? Possibly ever?

When he was through talking, I nodded. I almost didn't want to talk -- partially out of reverence for such an intensely difficult thing to say, and partially to soak in every word, to really understand and feel what he was saying. L____, unlike most people, is not tied to words. But words are everything to me, so I broke the silence.

I asked if he'd ever talked to anyone about it (prefacing the question with, "I know it's ridiculous to ask, considering..."), and he laughed. He brushed the idea away at once.

"But don't worry, Kit, I'm not going to go plummet from a bridge over it, I won't spiral into a hallucinogenic drug rage and become obsessed with prostitutes... I don't weep into my pillow over this."

"Oh no, of course," I said. "I'm not really worried that you'll harm yourself, you're much too sensible for that... it's just very sad."

He watched me as I spoke, and seemed to really be considering what I said.

"Being able to trust people, even with the things that make us uncomfortable, is such an amazing thing." I said. "I'm still learning that. So often I want to simplify my life and run away from everyone, unplug the phone and shut off the computer and lock everyone out."

"I feel like that all the time," he said.

I was not surprised that he felt that way, but the fact that he said so, showing a little more of himself, was a surprise. I went on, using myself as an example rather than him, knowing what would make him nervous and trying to transcend that, make him a little more comfortable instead. Maybe it even worked.

I said to him, "I'll feel like it would be so simple, so easy, to just cut everyone out of my life. But then I think about those friends I have, people who make my life better even if they complicate it, and I realize I don't want to do without them. I can, of course. You can get used to anything in the world if you try hard enough. But I don't want to, not at all. It's a wonderful feeling, depending on other people, and being depended on.

"What I'm learning," I said. "Is not to have this human instinct to protect my heart, to run and hide from the things I don't want to feel, and open myself up to it instead, learn from it rather than repressing it. I'm still learning that pain and anger and all that... that's just as important as the good stuff."

He was silent a moment, looking down at the floor. He looked up at me and asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty."

He nodded and went back to looking down.



We seem to have provided something symbiotic for one another. When I was a mess, he allowed me to share his space, his silence. I provided something for him as well. He trusted me with this really personal thing about himself, something that maybe he'd been wanting to say for a long time, maybe he knew I'd understand and not be awkward about it or turn it into a big issue that would make him regret ever saying anything.

Lily said he is like a cat. He could sense I was upset, so he provided calm companionship. He could sense I wouldn't turn on him, so he allowed himself to be vulnerable around me. For some reason, it was my greatest comfort of the day.

I believe I have greatly misjudged L___. This makes me especially angry because everyone misjudges him. I used to give myself so much credit for being perceptive.





(PS: Wee bit of a myspace -- not because I've turned traitor or become emo, so don't start -- specifically for Snap Crackle Pop. Check me out! The Elephant Blue.)

Trigger Happy Jack: I never know which side of L____ I'm going to get. Sometimes he is silent and severe, and barely responds to me at all. Then some days, like the ones I'm writing about now, he'll talk to me seemingly at random, without explanation, and I never know if he's speaking to me only to find something in my response to criticize, or if he's actually making an attempt at being friendly.

One day, a few weeks ago, was frankly startling. He was so chatty. I had never seen him in such a mood. I was at the register and he would just come up and talk to me. He would always come with the object of doing some menial thing -- fetching the garbage or the keepers or returns -- and he'd stick around and talk to me. When I'd responded and there was nothing left to say, he'd just stand there, doing nothing. He'd lean on the counter next to me and think or wait for something. I resented it at first, but I'm getting accustomed to his style. He's done that a lot.

That day he came up to me, smiling, and said that when I'd called for customer service over the intercom it reminded him that Kyle always used to say I sounded like I was trying to seduce someone. He said he guessed Kyle thought I had a really low, breathy, pay-by-the-minute voice. L____ said Kyle would often accompany his impressions of me with licking his lips and unbuttoning his shirt. L____ said I should add something to my intercoms like showing a little cleavage.

"I used to say, 'Kyle, man, if you want her so much, you should call her up', but he'd say 'No, shut up, I'm working'."

"He ain't got time fo bitches, man," I said.

The whole time L____ was making it clear that it was all Kyle that said this and that he didn't think about my voice at all, saying detached things like, "I guess Kyle thought it sounded seductive or something..." I wanted to laugh at him for it, but I don't think he knows how to be laughed at yet.

"You trying to tell me something, L____?" I asked. "Trying to say you like the sultry sound of my voice? You can say it."

"No thanks, that's all right."

"Uh huh. Well I'll try to tone it down in the future."

"Oh yeah, we can't have you riling up the male customers..."

"I have enough riots outside my house as it is."

"You could probably get some girls too."

"Thanks? Kinda?"

"Oh yeah, sure."




While I was with a customer, he picked up my register folder and started looking at it. I've drawn and written all over it, and he was looking at it and reading it for a long moment. Inside, I groaned. I knew L____ couldn't possibly let an opportunity like this pass without saying something clever.

After a moment he read aloud, in his notoriously monotone voice, a song lyric that I'd written down.

You're a star the way you are, you know you're not fooling anyone, no, you got the eyes of an angel, don't try to change, yeah, everybody's got their scars, no matter what they tell you, you're beautiful the way you are.

The way he said it was torture. It sounded so stupid. I felt ridiculous, berating myself for ever having written it down.

I tried to snatch my folder back but he kept yanking it out of my reach. I was completely mortified. Every word was like another whack in the head with the "nerd" mallet.

"Why are you so embarrassed, Kit?" he asked, obviously tickled. "You wouldn't have written it down if you didn't want anyone to read it. Look at you, you're a tomato."

"Oh, right, I'm a tomato, huh..."

"I just meant your face is red."

"Well of course it is, you're making fun of me."

"No I'm not," he said. "Did you not like the way I read it?"

"It was... in such a way that I felt silly."

"Did I have a tone?"

"I wouldn't say that. I don't think I've ever heard you speak with a tone."

He caught the burn and smiled. "Here, I'll try it again." He took my folder. "And I'll read it with all the passion and emotion it deserves."

I tried not to snort. He made a great show of clearing his throat and smoothing down the front of his shirt.

"Really, L____, that's a sweet offer, but it's absolutely fine if you don't..."

"Shh, I'm reading. Hey, zzt!" he made a little "zip it" noise when I kept protesting. "Just shut up for a second, I'm going to read this."

I sighed. Since I couldn't leave the counter space while I was on the register, I was at his mercy till he'd had his fun.

He read it again -- this time with emphasis, though not overdramatic -- you're beautiful the way you are. Even though I felt certain he was mocking me, I had to wonder -- I couldn't possibly help it -- if he was trying to say something by picking that lyric out of all of them to read aloud to me, and then doing it a second time.

"Beautiful," I said when he was done. "I mean, what a reading, I'm moved."

"You're just trying to get rid of me."

"Is it working?"

"Why are you so embarrassed?"

"Because you're laughing at me."

"I am not."

"Yes you are, you're always laughing at me."

"Would you like me to read some more, I could just..." his fingers twiddled threateningly over my folder.

"Nono, that's okay..."

"Here..." he grabbed the folder. "You're not the perfect hand, but I don't hit on nineteen..."

"Really L____, it's fine if you don't..."

"And I don't need another kind of green to know, I'm on the right side with you."

"Thanks, really, but you don't have to read any more," I took the folder out of his hands and put it away. He kept watching me.

He said, "Why are you doing this?"

I was confused. What did he mean, when he was the one doing everything, cornering me at the counter and talking to me?

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're ridiculing me."

"I'm only going to tell you once more that I'm not."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm reading words on a paper."

I looked at him, hard. "Are you?"

He sighed and looked up at the billboard behind me where upcoming release dates are posted.

"May second," he said. "Red Hot Chili Peppers - Stadium Arcadium, Mobb Deep - Blood Money, Jewel --"

"What, so you're just in the mood to read whatever's in front of you? Is this a compulsive thing?"

He picked up a sheet of paper from the counter.

"The coupon entitles the customer to ten dollars off any purchase of fifty dollars or more, limit one coupon per transaction..." He picked up one of the albums he'd been carrying and read the song titles off the back, then switched to another album and read the bit on the back that talks about how brilliant it is. "... with this spicy, sensual collection of lounge grooves, perfect for those steamy nights with--"

He put on a breathy, aroused voice and undid one of his shirt buttons while rubbing the CD against his face.

"Woah there partner!" I said.

We both laughed. He left soon after.




One day he called me on the intercom, but I wasn't able to pick up. When I was ready, I called him back and asked what he wanted. He explained that someone had called wanting to talk to me, but he sounded creepy, so L____ got rid of him.

He told me the guy said he wanted to talk to the haole girl, which is how customers always describe me, especially since I'm the only haole girl working there. The guy said I'd helped him find a song the day before, and he insisted on talking to me. L____ told me that since haole doesn't necessarily mean "white" just "foreigner", and that he didn't take too kindly to me being called that when I'm not foreign, he'd told the guy there was no one like that working here. The guy insisted, but L____ was firm.

Then the guy said, "Fine, well do you have any girls there? Let me talk to them."

L____ thought this was an odd, and quite creepy request, so he said they were all busy.

"F'real, brah? No girls, no women? They all busy?"

"Nope, we're really short staffed."

After that the guy gave up.

"He just sounded like a creepy perv," said L____.

"Well thanks for protecting my honor," I said.

"Yeah, sure."

After those two days of L____ talking to me and paying almost suspicious amounts of attention to me, he closed off again, and didn't speak a single word to me in over a week.

I cannot make him out to save my life.

"The queerest of the queer, the strangest of the strange, the coldest of the cool, the lamest of the lame, the numbest of the dumb, I hate to see you here, you choke behind a smile, a fake behind the fear, the queerest of the queer...."
Garbage: "Queer"


I need to start talking about Leland, because he gets more confusing by the day, and one day it's going to explode. It began when I was still relatively new at the record store and I tried, in vain, to make friends with him. He told me not to bother. Ever since then I've been wondering about him -- he is so cold and so intensely private, so monotone and emotionless, so forbidding. Then some days, out of nowhere, he'll make me laugh too hard to breathe. I cannot possibly understand him. This is what I meant not long ago when I said my life was far too closely resembling Pride & Prejudice but without, I assure you, any of the romance.

This is what I wrote about him a little while ago.


I have no idea what to make of his character. He gets more confusing by the day, and it's been worse this past week. He keeps hanging around where I am, when I know perfectly well there are other things he could be doing. He's been voluntarily speaking to me, and I can't for the life of me figure out why, unless he's only doing it to find through my response more reasons to hate me.

On Monday we had to work the same shift, which meant spending nine hours in his company. I took care to say as little as possible to him, but that somehow had the reverse effect. He kept talking to me. I tried to keep my responses short and snarky, but that didn't seem to be a deterrent.

Whenever he speaks to me, I get so nervous, even indignant. I know he's judging me by everything I say and so (even though I shouldn't give a damn) I always end up feeling the same way as before a math final. The best I could ever hope for was a D.

On Thurdsay I was taking my break in the back when he did the unthinkable and sat next to me. He reclined in his chair, popped open a can of juice and just sat there. I was petrified that we'd be sitting in complete awkward silence if I didn't say something. I made some slight inquiry about work, he answered, and we seemed about to sink back into silence. I asked if he'd miss Kyle, who had moved away to Oregon. He said no. I then kept quiet, determined that if he wanted to stop being imposing and awkward, he could speak himself.

He seemed to take the hint, so he asked if I myself would miss Kyle. I said that I would and, in a rather pointed manner, that I always loved talking to him, and liked him very much. He hardly let me finish saying that when he asked if I'd also miss Allen, who'd been fired the day before for something completely unfair. We talked about that for a while, then the subject strayed to Gracie, one of the managers, which led to the subject of Gracie's ubiquitous romance novels.

He told me that his ex-girlfriend used to read them. This shocked me immensely for two reasons: first, that he voluntarily offered up information about himself, and second, because he'd had a girlfriend. Someone so cold and private as Leland doesn't strike me as the romantic type. Nevermind the shock that Leland -- blisteringly intelligent, even to frustration -- had dated someone with less than refined taste in books.

We talked on the subject of romance novels for a while, and as Leland can be terribly funny when he wants to, I laughed in spite of myself. With a person as dry and monotone as he, the words "caressed his throbbing member" can only be riotously funny.

I have absolutely no idea what to think of him. When my sister said he must like me to be acting so odd, I promised her he did not. The thought can only make me laugh. That someone like him could have romantic feelings at all, not even to mention for a person like me, is beyond ridiculous.

Is he trying to frighten me? Is he collecting resentments against me? Is he simply trying to be decent and talk nonsense in a friendly way with me? I can't think that his actions don't have any design, because I always get the feeling that he is analyzing, calculating, that there is something else behind everything he says, and sometimes I'm perceptive enough to catch it, sometimes I'm not.

He's been singing along to the radio lately. While I'm in earshot.

And the strangest thing occurs to me now concerning what happened on Monday -- he knew I was taking my break at the time, knew I'd be sitting at that table, but he chose that moment to take a break anyway. No less than that, in the same room and at the same table as I was.

Even stranger is that the next day he returned to his indifferent -- if not openly disdainful -- manner, and scarcely said ten words to me all day, even though we were thrown together a lot. Each run-in that I have with him leaves me with so much to wonder. He is such a Mr. Darcy. Without the irresistible charm, of course, without any charm at all, but he has everything else. He's haughty and rude and intimidating, terrifyingly intelligent, very particular about who he speaks to and when, complex, witty, unwilling to say anything at all unless it will amaze everyone who hears.

The other day I took particular care in dressing so I could look nice when I gave Damien his birthday present (I will not lie and say that I don't fancy Damien a little -- who wouldn't?), only to find what my whole plan and appearance was ruined by Damien not being there at all. Instead, Leland was working later than usual, and didn't even have the decency to avoid and scorn me.

My life is truly beginning to resemble Pride & Prejudice.

One of the things that confuses me the most is imagining him with a girlfriend. By mentioning an ex (let alone one who reads romance novels) he is intimating that at some point, whether once or twice or dozens of times, whether for a year or a day, he was in a relationship. I cannot possibly understand this. How could someone so private, so resolutely closed off, even begin to have a relationship, something that makes a person so vulnerable, forces them to be so open, that it goes against his whole character? What sort of girl would he be attracted to? How would he even talk to her? Would he hold her hand, kiss her in public? Would he tell her about himself? Was it him or was it her that began it?

How can a person who appears to have no proper feelings at all put themselves in a relationship?

I asked if it bothered him that she read romance novels. He said no and asked why it would. I said I supposed it to be the equivalent to a woman finding her boyfriend's porn. There's an obvious reason it's there, even if the other person can't really understand.

He smiled and said "Why, Kit, what are you implying? 'Leland, why would your girlfriend need romance novels, unless you were...'"

I laughed. "That is a place I will never dare to go."

I can't imagine it. The idea of Leland in a romantic situation simply doesn't support itself. Each time I talk to him, he only gets more confusing.



I'll write more about him later.

This guy came up to me today while I was behind the counter, trying to make conversation about this tattoo magazine he was paging through. I nodded and indulged him, mostly because I wanted to speed up talking to him as much as possible. He was harmless and half-stupid, and showed me this picture of two demons butt-fucking as he said, "It's like that thing, you know? Like that kinda techno, raver club scene thing, know what I mean?"

I said, "Nope."

He grinned at me as he paid for his magazine. "Do you like dinner?"

"Do I like dinner?" it was such a ludicrous question I couldn't help but repeat it.

"Yeah."

"O....ccassionally...."

"Would you like to have dinner? With me, and stuff?"

Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the barn animals... I thought. This makes two this week. Three in two weeks if you count "milk_chocolate_creamy_gentleman"...

"I can't, I'm sorry."

"You bitch!"

He was grinning when he said it, but he still said it. For two seconds I was shocked, then I grinned.

"Yeah, I know, right? I really am a bitch. I'm sorry."

"Come on."

"You're cool and all," I said. "But I don't date."

"Okay... okay, g'night," he said. "I'll be back."

"I bet you will." I smiled and waved.




The preceding offer came from sort of a friend of mine. He works at the minimart down the street, and I see him all the time. He came into the record shop the other night and was surprised to see me there. I like him a lot -- he's sweet and cool and funny and cute -- but he's cute in sort of a baby ducks way. In a totally innocent, charming, I-work-in-public-service-and-like-it, Disney movies and popcorn, not-corruptable way.

He came up to me and said, "So I was wondering... do you want to go out sometime?"

I stood there with my mouth open for a second, buying time by looking intelligent.

"You mean... go out go out?" I said. Yes, I actually said that.

"Yeah," he said, apparently unfazed by my complete zombieness. "Like, to dinner or to a movie or something like that..."

I think I accidentally said yes. Then I accidentally gave him my number.

Now, of course, I have to find a stealthy and marvelous way of wriggling out of this without hurting his feelings or actually having to speak to him.

I'm a pro at wriggling out of dates. I can do it in two shakes, and I can even do it in a unique way each time. By now I've made something of an art of it. But I've never had to wriggle out of a date with someone I know and like.

It's awful. He think I'm his type. The poor guy. I don't want to have to tell him, and I certainly don't want him to find out the hard way.

My best plan will be to just never pick up the phone or go to that minimart again. Right.



I always thought I'd be totally happy if guys were asking me out every week, but it's not a lot of fun. Of course it's completely idiotic that I'm complaining about being found attractive by guys, but it's not all it's cracked up to be. They see something and believe it immediately -- big boobs, a Beatles t-shirt, a nose ring and some jeans with stuff written all over them are one thing, but Kit Fox is another. I'm not their type. I'm not even my type.

And before anyone gets any ideas about me giving anyone a chance, I just want to be totally clear. It wouldn't work. I know it because I feel this awful, nagging, squirming, stupid little feeling that's always there when the wrong guy is interested, and it makes me want to repel everything and everyone. If I feel like that, odds are I shouldn't be placing myself in a romantic situation with anyone.

Jeez Louise... I think I just realized I may have some honest-to-God issues. Anyone know hypnosis?



Leland, of all people, was the one I told about this guy asking me out today. He seemed to think it was hilarious, right up until the part where the guy called me a bitch. Leland has a very odd and severe nature, extremely closed off when he wants to be, but hilarious and intelligent much of the time. I can never tell what he's thinking, and I always have the sneaking suspicion that he can't stand me. A lot of times, especially recently, he's surprised me by hanging around and talking to me, even if it feels like he's only asking me questions to find more about me to criticize.

"He actually called you a bitch?" he said. "Well, there's a foolproof way of getting a girl to go out with you! I mean, if you get rejected, at least be graceful about it."

I laughed about it, but Leland didn't want to let it go. He said it was really uncool of the guy to do it, and called him some names.

"Well, how would you want a girl to reject you?" I asked. "Wrong question... What would be the least awful way..."

"I just want girls to be honest. I'd want them to be totally open and say things like, 'Leland, you're a great guy... you're incredibly handsome and sexy, you have brilliant taste in movies and music... you're a snappy dresser, you're witty, you're funny, you've got that great hair and that... lanyard... but I just don't feel we'd be right together. You're too good for me.' Y'know, something like that."

I was cracking up. "Honesty."

"Honesty, yeah."

I told him about the milk chocolate guy, which he loved. He said, "And let me guess, you called him up and now you're going steady, right?"

"Well, I didn't want to say that right up front, but yeah, we're engaged... he's gonna be my babydaddy..."

"I don't see a ring, didn't the bastard give you one?"

"Oh he did, but it's just so large that I can't wear it to work."

"So come on, Kit," he said. "Why didn't you call him up?"

"Arranged marriage. My folks are very traditional. I've been betrothed to a one-eyed, hunchbacked mad scientist since birth."

"Okay, you don't have to tell me."

"His particular brand of uhm... creamy chocolateyness wasn't really to my taste."

"Nor is anyone's, right?"

I stared at him. "You're starting to sound like some of my guy friends..."

"But it's true. You're not interested in anyone."

"I never said that."

"But you don't date."

"That doesn't mean I'm not interested."

Luckily my manager interrupted me before we could get any more confused and ridiculous. I may have imagined it, but it seemed like Leland was just as relieved as I was to have the conversation ended.



I have had just about as much boy-related confusion as I can stand. This stuff, plus the other stuff I've been very skillfully repressing, cannot possibly be good for me. I think I shall pay more attention to my cat.

But she's currently horny. Incurably so. Damn.

Like the ladies said, spring can really hang you up the most.