Untitled

by Mitchell Harding

written 7/2/99

Furtive glances. That's what it's all about. They don't lead to any actual human contact, but they permit you to pretend that they might. And then, when the secret object of your attention leaves (usually with some guy), you can tear down your fantasy slowly and methodically, a Holocaust of your hopes. And you can write awful metaphors like that one.

Starfish -- And they aren't even fish. How cheap.
Obelisk -- They aren't fish either, but that doesn't disturb me quite as much.

I think a bug just crawled into my notebook. Yup, and he just emerged, and now he is on the ground. Or she. I didn't check. I didn't even stop to ask if his or her type of bug even has genders. I blame this appalling breach of etiquette on my root beer -- it has left me feeling giddy and unconcerned with societal conventions.

I just can't forget "robots versus ninjas". It's such a good concept, and I can't put my finger on why. A failure of imagination on my part, to be sure.

Insects on t-shirts. Pictures of 'em anyway. It'll be the new craze. I know what you're thinking -- Mitch, you're still thinking about that bug in your notebook? Actually, no -- there was a pretty girl in a blue shirt featuring an insect on the front, and it pleased me. And so I wrote this.

A bug just landed on my t-shirt. That isn't fashionable. Apparently it misunderstood my essay.

I guess shaving today turned out to be a waste. It wasn't a close shave anyway, but I find it hard to take comfort in that.

This outing is over. Time to tuck my tail between my legs and retreat.

It never gets easier.


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