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10:12 p.m. - April 17, 2006
Overheard today at lunch, one colleague telling another: Jason is a lot of fun once you get to know him, even if he is emotionally stunted. Been replaying the conversation in different shades of thesaurus-speak: Indignant. Self-pitying. Wounded. Exposed. Resigned. Embarrassed.

Left work early for no better reason than I felt like it; ate chips and salsa; sat outside in the sun for too long, came inside when the sun set. Now listening to iTunes: Classical Favorites. Very little going on.

Just another speed bump on the plain to keep me awake. Not much keeping me going but I'll snap out of the funk soon enough.

I took the train home from SFO and passing through a station watched two women exchange pecks on a bench and cuddle. It was nice to see. It isn't jealousy or envy I feel, just that peculiar wistfulness that makes me feel I'm 95 years old and it's too late for anything different than what is and has been. Try as I do I haven't yet convinced myself to stop wishing or hoping to find someone out there just for me. It's not going to happen, Jason. Should be thankful for the one-night guys that come and go to break up the monotony, but that's just not me. I want to hold someone's hand and know each line, and have him know mine just as intimately.

How long has it been since I wrote anything worthwhile?

Final note: The Pulitzer Prize committee missed the mark with the literature award.


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