7:05 p.m. - November 01, 2003
Quarry, plumb, trawl: With chisel or net?
I've worked on the book since 8:15 this morning and I have but a few pages' progress as a tangible result. Spent far too much time thinking about nothing, watching the leaves fall and scuttle across the remaining patches of a once-lush lawn. On a blustery day of toast and old blue sweatshirts, notions of work and accomplishments make little headway.
I did a very stupid thing today: I called Anthropology Man, intent on asking him out or at least conversing until I could summon the nerve. I don't think he was particularly pleased to hear from me and that automatic self-protection kung-fu chop that chides What the hell you thinking, fool? kicked in and I terminated the conversation. Of all my worries and quirks (much less bothersome than idiosyncracies or peccadilloes), that flight response has got to go yet seems the most entrenched.
We talk for months, finally meet, cum; and that's the end. A few conclusions: The sex was bad. I was too nervous. Not enough deodorant - or too much. When I said no I should've said yes. Been more talkative. Been less talkative? You know what I think the most? That I was too ugly and that sucks.
