The glorious days of local BBS's and USENET for the love of discussion are over. Now anyone can do it, at any time, even from their phone. Which means, amongst too many other things, and as any capitalist at marrow knows, it's worthless.

Drip, drip, drip. It kind of makes me want to masturbate. Then again, what doesn't?

Point being, it's one of those days where reality decays, and I hover a few dangerous nanometers over the truth of who makes it all seem what it appears to be.

(A burgundy van just went by. I've never seen a burgundy van before.)

The elements are a little more real. The passage of time suggests I'm not having fun.

At the same time, I know I can start imagining it (i.e. what I call "my experience") to be fun. But I'm not young enough to forget that I'm the one doing all that and, therefore, "it" is a bit too contrived to constitute some Platonic fun.

(Is there any fun that isn't contrived?  Oh, brother....)

I miss one of my old MySpace friends. I can't have any contact with her anymore, because of various events connected with my girlfriend (who kind of found me through her). I mean, I *could*. But both women are big on what to me is a ridiculously impractical form (or is it a level?) of honesty. So I have to pretend along with them that there's something wrong with me communicating with someone if the girlfriend doesn't know about it, or doesn't approve, or whatever it is.

So, it's weird. I do somewhat adore that old MySpace friend. Yet, I'm upset with her for having to ignore me for "principle's sake". Or whatever it is.

It defies analysis, this "somewhat adoration". I guess I merely map some ideal girl into her often bohemian look. In reality, she seems to be nothing more than an accidental socialite in hip-cool realms, mostly incapable of original thought.

But you should see her friggin' eyes!

We had little or nothing in common, really.

But you wouldn't believe how yummy black-haired tiny she is!

Maybe it's just that someone who looked like her seemed interested in knowing someone like me. Could it really be that simple? That pathetic?

I suppose so. Sigh.

The wind blows a bit more urgently. Howlingly, even. I touch "him" a bit through the denim, having already lost precious zinc this morning, and needing to reload for tonight, both for a really good time, and to avoid suspicion. So many aspects of things, you know. Even simplicity isn't simple.

Now we're talking a full-scale buffeting of the walls and windows with wind, rain, and leaves. Light bends drunkenly through serrated streams of water wiggle-dancing on the front window pane. I want to go press my lips and nose against that pane. But that's so overtly not working, as opposed to typing this, which at least has me at the computer where I'm supposed to be justifying a paycheck. I'm polishing my communication skills here, you see.

But to what end?

I really need to stop asking that silly question. It presupposes there could be an end, and that an end is somehow better than no end. But how could anything be better than endlessness?

Obviously, the answer is: it could be Adriana Lima....