Saturday, March 13


Forensics has me spending the day with cute intellectuals/actors who are too arrogant for their own good. The one with the eyes begged me to sign; I rolled my eyes and said something for you. (It went something like, like the rain I am falling for you.)

Breaks have me stealing away to fondle my empty cigarette pack and dream of you. It doesn't take long for me to be wishing, but we all know life's tough and things don't always work out.

Later I am forcing myself to be noncommittal in a gay marriage debate, still dreaming of you. The boy with the mohawk admits to being a bisexual; all eyes on me, waiting for the confession. I smile and let my hair fall across my eyes. I'm told it's a lovely effect: blues shadowed by blacks, lips pink. Just better to kiss you with.

The Avril Lavigne look-a-like that clings to me asks if it's true, what they are saying. I say, "About Cloud and the Nicoles?" and she gives me a terrible look and says, No, of course not, about you being gay. (I find out later that his name is really Sky, and it was a Nicole and a Michelle performing the deed backstage, but it could just be rumor. You know how vicious rumors can be; you're involved in your own little version of "The In Crowd.") My hair falls in my eyes again. Emily and I look strangely alike these days.

I find myself afraid to lie to you here. Not that it matters -- maybe you won't read -- and it's not that I would lie to you on purpose anyway. But there is a difference between writing and reality. Sometimes I don't know the difference. And this makes me nostalgic, this second person exercise; it makes me think of Ezra and Jay, which was all lies except the parts where I imagined you.

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