Thanks to all of you who had something nice to say to about my last post.  I appreciate your advice and your sticking up for me.  I think that I should be more clear about what I meant there; I feel fine at the moment, and it was only because I'd talked at length with a few people about the issue that I was able to write about it at all.  As far as I'm concerned, I'm on the right track now, and I'll just have to see where it leads.

Now if I could just get rid of these pop-up ads, my life would be sublime.

Last night, I took advantage of the cold weather to wear wool and cashmere.  That makes me feel, well, warm and fuzzy.  I realize of course that I'm awfully overdressed for this town, but at this point, I don't really care.  I went out for some more peppermint mocha (for purely therapeutic purposes, natch), and to write a bit.  It was surprisingly quiet there last night, but I was distracted by a really good-looking Asian guy who made a spectacle of himself and who sat down right next to me.  Then he started doing all those "look at me, look at me" things, like making odd noises, stretching luxuriously, casting sidelong glances, and tapping his feet.  Then when I decided to stare at him he ignored me.  Gee, I'd never have guessed he was from Houston.

Another annoying interlude took place around the greeting cards.  I was looking for a nice blank-inside card with a clever, appealing photo on the cover.  I couldn't find what I hoped for, but I did find a tall, somewhat nerdy-looking, guy whose voice cracked when I asked him about something he was holding.  I think I made him self-conscious, because after I let him rest a moment and I rifled through the bookmarks, he took off in the direction of the cash registers, made his purchase, and hurried out the door.  I could tell he was nervous because when he heard the sound of my footfall, he glanced over his shoulder at me and swayed on his feet.  I wish people would appreciate the amount of energy I put into flirting with them.  It's very draining.

I bought the Winter Fiction issue of The New Yorker and plan on enjoying that for a few days.  I'm going to take advantage of the lovely weather (sunny, breezy, in the 60s) to sit outside in the sunshine and relax.

Last night, I came home from losing at canasta eager to skim through the parts of my library book I was interested in so I could return it today.  But when I sat down with it, I realized I just wasn't in the mood to be lectured on the decadence of modern art.  I thought I'd go back to the beginning, the first post, in August of 2001, and make an index, so I could quickly see what happened on "this day in history."

For some reason, I remember those days differently.  When I've looked back on them recently, I thought, "Gee, all I ever did back then was write stuff like, 'I went to the supermarket and the cashier forgot to charge me for shredded coconut and I said nothing!'"  Here I was, pacing along, patting myself on the back for having grown up so much, and being able to write something that could hold interest for someone besides myself.  But after reading through the end of September, I worried that I've steadily changed for the worse.

The time when I first began blogging I count as the most distressing time in my life thus far.  When I was writing my Index, the summary phrases that kept popping up were:

I typed that through blinding tears.  I'd driven home after a party that I'd been to with Aaron.  I'd gone to visit him at work as I did every now and then, and he'd invited me along.  Naturally I was thrilled.  I wanted to be with him all the time.  I was a big hit at the party, and somehow Aaron ended up in my lap.  I'd rubbed his back, played with his hair (he needed a haircut, I remember) for what seemed the longest time.  It was late and I'd a few drinks and I seized the opportunity.  It was the most glorious feeling in the world.  I've never felt so euphorious touching any guy, ever again.  When I look back on it now, I suppose Aaron must have been trying to make some other guys at the party jealous.  I can see objectively now that he was like that.

After the party, I drove back to Aaron's house on my way home.  Reed had brought him home, and Reed would be staying the night.  With Aaron.  It all seemed so wrong, so terribly wrong, what had gone wrong?  I must have stood in his doorway for eons while Aaron tried to get me to leave, but I was too astonished to move.  Finally, he just gave me a hug, and I fell into my car, and it moved.  The car drove me all the way home while I sobbed and moaned.  It was a summer night but I shivered like icicles were forming and I wanted to shake them off.

Eventually, I stopped thinking about Aaron every day.  I stopped wondering what he was doing, who had made him smile, what he thought about.  If he showed up at my door today and asked to come in, I'd wrap my arms around him and probably cry.  I'd tell him how much I felt for him.  I loved Aaron.  He treated people like toys and I loved him.  He made me feel worse than anyone has ever done before or since, and I still love him, in a way.

I honestly don't see how I could have made it through such a horrible time without Elsa and Cyndee.  They read faithfully, offering their advice, almost every day, and I'm still baffled what they could have found compelling about my struggles.  I wrote repetitive reams, going over and over the problem in my mind, trying to figure out what the hell was happening to me.  Why I couldn't just let go, why I had to devour every scrap of kindness Aaron gave me and beg for more.  I believe they saved my life.  I don't use those words casually.

When I read these entries, I wonder what happened to the guy who devoted so much of his time to trying to understand himself.  I'm surprised by how much fun I managed to have, even when going through wrenching crises, and how I was able to make new friends, and keep up with my schoolwork, find time to exercise and eat right.  What has happened to me?  I don't watch the evening news because it's too unpleasant.  I never cook any more, rarely get active, have not managed to connect to anyone in this town . . . I've given up on higher education, have nothing to do, and I refuse to express an honest emotion.  I've turned into someone scared of his own shadow.  If anything's remotely uncomfortable, I make a joke out of it.  I used to think that humor was a good way to deal with things, but now I see I've grown so detached from myself.

Something's got to change, but how?

Custodial issues:

After getting complaints about visibility, I decided to scrap the apples.  One bad apple spoils the barrel of comments.  I'm not entirely thrilled with the new color scheme, since it seems a bit like the background hides a disembodied diva who will be belting out the words, "Move yo body, *hwoinch* move yo body," and encouraging us to raise our glowsticks.  But I'll just let it rest for now.  The only real problem is that the page is much more graphic-intensive than before and if you have dial-up, it will take some extra time to load.

While I have fun playing with the banner, I've decided that for purposes of freshness it will be changed once a week Wednesdays.  And since I had so much fun answering questions, I'll call a Q&A session every other Friday, so Friday after next will be the next opportunity you have to pick my brain (try jiggling the handle).

It was such a gorgeous day that when I woke up early, I decided to go for a walk to clear my head.  It's a wonderful thing, walking in the country.  I live near a rural road, and I used to do this almost daily before I left for the second time.  There are no longer any wildflowers, but the mesquite trees are still verdant (they're ugly as sin without foliage).   A trick I always used to stay creative was to make up stories about the pieces of litter lying alongside the road.  They say "Don't Mess With Texas" (the slogan refers to litter, for those of you in the Colonies), but I couldn't be more pleased.  Today, for example, I found a pill . . . what do you call it?  The thing you get from the pharmacy that's full of pills, and it's dark yellow and made of plastic with a white lid.  Not a jar.

Last night, I was feeling well enough again to have coffee.  I think it was LonelyFirefly, and correct me if I'm wrong, who suggested I try the peppermint variety.  Wow.  Wow, wow, wow.  I'm starting to sound like a terrier . . . I had a peppermint mocha, and although it cost the earth (nearly $5 for a Venti -- I miss the days of free coffee at Crossroads) it was delicious!  It was a taste sensation!  I've not tasted anything quite so interesting since I had Sprite Ice (which is something like mentholated Sprite, and probably causes cancer in laboratory animals).  I also got quite a bit of writing done, since I didn't have Blake to gaze at, despite the fact that shortly after I sat down, a 16-year-old girl and some of her friends sat down at a table near me.

"My algebra teacher totally hates me, which is so unfair, like, he calls me out for talking during class -- I know, right? --  when there are so many people in there who talk way more than me --" at which point I wanted to butt in and say only a 16-year-old girl with two heads could talk more than she does -- none of her friends said a word as far as I could hear.  To make a long story short, I got there shortly after nine, and at ten-thirty when I left, she was still talking about how people think she talks too much.

Another Woman is my favorite Woody Allen film.  It's superb in every way.  It's also the best thing Gena Rowlands has ever done.  Why can't they make more movies like this? 

I'm too tired to say anything groundbreaking today.  It's Sunday, just past 5 o'clock and already nearly dark outside.  Why is it that just when the weather becomes tolerable, there's hardly any time to enjoy it?