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Seething Cakes of Hatred

Making pancakes, as I learned at AP's birthday bash at the beach this weekend, is an unbelievably tedious chore. I don't know why I...

Tuesday, March 30, 2004


I am sitting here at work in an empty office. People in my department tend to get in early and leave by 4pm.

It's quiet, and I'm feeling like a parade of noise just marched through my head all day. Work was hectic, my e-mails with you were fun and silly and HOT and exciting.

I went to lunch with friends, and I tried not to mention you, but I failed. Twice.

I checked your blog over and over, read my comments, took an astrological test about sex, and answered tons of phone calls from frantic co-workers.

This is a ghost town. The office is deadly silent now.

Now that the parade has passed, the street is quiet and covered in horse manure. A wind blows through the abandoned streets, and I'm standing here looking around at the emptiness. I'm holding a single balloon in my hand, and it's already starting to sag as the helium leaks out.

The question keeps coming up in my mind...What am I doing? What am I doing?

I have nobody to blame but myself.

I didn't try very hard to keep you from mattering. I could have fought it, and I didn't. I welcomed you in and welcomed the 48% chance that all of this would be just two guys acting silly. The 48% of you that tells you to go for it makes me indecisive.

But that damn 2% chance that you would sell plasma to pay for the airfare to come meet me somehow made this whole thing seem like something worth giving a chance.

I am trying to keep it in check, as I know you are. There's no reason to rush. No need to make plans to meet in person. No reason to consider this flirtation to mean anything. No reason to do anything but have fun.

But you are starting to matter. Like, if you stopped writing or decided to curb the flirtation, I would be disappointed. Already, I would miss you.

God, I hate that.

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