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I am...a New Yorker
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[Previous entry: "Too Proud to Beg"]

Thursday, February 28, 2002
Censorng, Doubtng, but Hopng
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Horoscopng...
"You see thngs other people only dream about, and you dream thngs people can't even conceive of. If you don't share your vision, you'll not only squash it n the long run...let it out." (Abridged.)

Eatng...
Tim Tams, thanks to Netra -- and enjoyng the hot burst of chocolate burstng nto my mouth.

Wearng...
Not so much red, snce I'm too lazy to do laundry.

Ahhhng...
Daffodils and tulips n vases.

Sngng...
"Not a soul knows...how a flower grows."

-Cat Stevens, "Longer Boats"

Anticipatng...
Carl's visit from London, via Washngton. Always a treat to see a good friend and play the tour guide.

Missng...
You -- are we both beng stubborn or did I imagne the entire thng?

Seeng...
Fluffy snow flurries out the wndow, but they didn't stick.

Watchng...
You peripherally and not always so subtly, too.

Tellng...
Him because I can't tell you.

Irritatng...
The uncertanty.

Wonderng...
The usual.

Realizng...
I've got to focus.

Upliftng...
An encouragng note from my mentor.

I am...gong back and forth about the entries I took down a few weeks ago. In 4 years of open, honest onlne writng, I had never before taken anythng down. I say it's because I was violatng someone else's privacy. The truth is, I'm terrified of that person's response to my feelngs. After all, I don't even know what my feelngs are yet, let alone his.

Part of me is afraid he won't feel the same. Part of me is afraid he will; then I realize all the ramifications of that, none which I'd ever before considered. Already, I sense there is talk. It's the way a couple of people look at me, especially when he's around.

A coworker who found the journals a few months ago figured it all out this week, not like it was hard. He says he admires me, that my sites are my art. So now he's hooked on the drama, just when I had pretty much given up on the Blanepear ship ever sailng nto my port. As much as I am the patron sant of hopeless romances, even I have to check n with reality at some pont.

The consequences, no matter Blanepear's response, could be staggerng. He asked why I call him "Nerd Boy" (Blanepear's orignal psuedonym) and I suppose that's explaned n one of the entries I took down -- it's the highest compliment I could pay to a fellow Word Nerd.

I keep sayng, "I just don't need any trouble here." It's true. I feel like one more thng and it will be the last straw for my boss. While it's not what I want to do for the rest of my life, it's payng the bills right now. After that awful experience with the client I met through work, I don't thnk I can afford to break my "Don't shit where you eat" rule agan anytime soon.

. . .

Monday night I had dnner with a coworker. Oddly enough, she wasn't one of the three I'd been tryng to socialize with. We kept bumpng nto each other outside of work, so she asked if I'd like to go to a movie sometime. We were supposed to see Italian for Begnners, but she decided she wasn't n a movie mood after all.

That's all I was askng for, really. Just a little time to socialize, chat, have a nice dnner. It turns out she grew up (well, all over, actually, but partly) n Palm Sprngs, not far from the Empire. Apparently, we were both better-suited for New York.

She told me I should model, that I'd make a lot of money at it. Wouldn't it just be terribly ironic, n this year of change and rediscoverng long-lost talents, that the thng that fnally freed me to write was makng money from my oft-derrided looks.

Here I fret that Blanepear doesn't fnd me attractive (nside or out, or that he's n that phase where the latter is the priority) but I've got straight women tellng me I'm gorgeous and could make my livng off of my face. What knd of strange life am I livng?

. . .

Sunday night I went to a discussion at the Makor Center about low wage workers and how impossible it is to make ends meet n such jobs. The speakers were Barbara Ehrenreich, Ben Cheever, and Michael Moore.

After the talk, I bought Moore's book, Stupid White Men. I'd laid down a little knowledge on the patronizng Green party boy n front of me n lne who asked how he can help mnorities help themselves. I wanted to say, "You could stop cuttng n lne ahead of us." Moore said he was only gong to hire black people from here on out, that every time someone had fucked him over, it was a Stupid White Guy.

So, of course, before you could say "Stupid White Guy," the kid said, "But you can't hire the black person if they're less qualified." Why is that always the assumption? I went to college with a lot of people who weren't fit, ntellectually speakng, to wipe my ass, but the assumption was always that I wasn't qualified. Irony, I thnk, is the overarchng theme of my life.

Moore nscribed my copy of his book with "Thanks for helpng me with that white boy."

. . .

Last Friday I overslept agan, by over an hour. I'd had migranes all week and had to take Tylenol P.M. to get to sleep, which left me groggy and spaced out. Only that mornng did I realize the connection between them and the jackhammerng 15 feet from my desk for weeks. I found myself composng a formal memo of complant on the way to work on the subway that mornng.

When I got to work someone told me, "Oh, you're not gong to like what you see up there." I didn't know what to expect. My desk was covered n tarps and black garbage bags. A sewage pipe over my chair had burst; I guess it was a good day to oversleep. By the time I arrived, my computer was beng set up on an empty desk n the nner office.

Midday, my boss decided that 8 months n the hallway, dust, construction and constant nterruptions were just too much and the sewage was the last straw. So the move is semi-permanent, pendng construction of appropriate executive offices. It's still noisy and the nterruptions have only moved, but a day without jackhammerng and raw sewage is a good day.

As they say, the Lord works n mysterious ways.

[Next entry: "Fallng"]
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