The Postal Service is an excellent band. I love them.

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You know, I think the reason why I don't want my familiars reading this diary is not so much that I don't want them to know what I'm thinking; I'm not so very vicious. It's that in this diary, I'm so freaking self-important. Never in everyday speech would I go on and on so about what I think, my opinion, my strengths. I mean, everything here Revolves Around Me. And I would feel straight silly to have them read that voice that talks about nothing but myself.

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Saturday night:

K's girlfriend Danielle is lovely, kind, and sweet. I like her the way you would like a sympathetic character in a book; there is a distance, but I'm on her side.

So I am trying not to look at K. I want him in the same room, I am trying not to look at him. I want him nearby, but I mustn't touch him. Let's be natural here.

But he's in the room, right, he exists, and one must look at a person from time to time. But I can't freaking look at him for a freaking second without it being clearly displayed on my face that he is beautiful. And he can't catch my eye without not wanting to look away. I can't look at him without feeling guilty because we know what's happening.

And when I look away from K, I look at Danielle. She won't meet my eyes and she looks like she is listening to her insecurities. Dammit, I like her too much. She should be meeting my gaze, she should be fighting me with her eyes. She should fight me with her eyes and send me a smirk that says, We have this much in common.

But she's not. Danielle, fight back. Stop me. I don't want to steal his eyes from this lovely girl.

Oh, but I want him in the same room.

So I'm leaving the party and I'm saying my goodbyes, and I'm thinking, where's K? where's K? I have to say goodbye to K! Then I remember myself--it would be better not to seek him out. I'll just go.

He calls out from the balcony, separated by glass, and says again that he wants to come to my birthday.

And as we say goodbye, I put my hands in my pockets; he puts his hand against the window.

2:30 a.m. 2004-02-02�