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9:16 p.m. - October 11, 2003
We both had garlic mashed potatoes, an ideal mutal kiss-repellent
Ryan and I ate at The Outback and now he's telling me to hurry up, the movie's starting. I am not a movie person and unfortunately I was (dis)passionate enough in my avowed refusal to see Bill Murray because now there's a stack of (dis)interesting DVDs and he's revved and I'm not. So we'll cuddle and my attention will wander and I'll either fall asleep or pick up a book, at which point he'll pout, take away my book, or wake me up. Why do men require so much damn quasi-attention, quasi because I suspect they're content with eyes merely open rather than engaged.

It is (still?) strange to me that a person who can pass for straight will make it a point to say This is the guy I'm dating to an acquaintance of his. I was bothered by the carelessness - carefulness? - and he merely shrugged it off. Doesn't he understand the power of words to shape reality rather than simply describe? I blush and stammer and feel queasy, self-righteous when I tell him don't say that in public and he just laughs.

Earlier, worked in San Francisco for a high profile assignment. I despise microphones but I did well, was satisfied. When I mentioned to my team I had plans tonight and he said Oh, what's her name? I was momentarily - one of those slow-quick thoughts - tempted to say His name is Ryan. I'd like to get to know him better; his name is Kirk and recently moved here from Colorado with his partner.

Ah, Ryan's bellowing. Rush, rush. Am I dating Ryan? Having casual sex with him? Hanging out? I don't want any of that, though I don't mind the cuddling and the I-respect-your-boundaries-tickling. Spec never does.

George Herbert once said, Itís never too late to be who you might have been. It's a nice thought.


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