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An entry in which I ponder the pake of confluffity, and an imagined murder. Parents are coming tonight for the weekend. This morning on the bus I thought, if I got shot in the back of the head by that weirdish man who gave me a weirdish look before he got onto the bus from the door right behind me, if I got shot in the back of the head by him and I die, it will be so embarrassing for me when people find the things I've written. If I weren't already dead I'd die of embarrassment. People would be thinking that they finally knew me, and they'd think that they knew what was important to me, when really all they'd know was what I've written and they'd have no idea about what I've notwritten, and they'd have no idea about whether what I've written is true or not. I hope my biographer will be able to make the distinction better than these people. But then I went to work, alive. So since I've totally gotten over my crush on the cute boy at work... yesterday he asked me something, one thing and that's all, but then today we talked a bit and I had to scoot over into his space to look at what he was working on, and ANYWAY I can admire the boy's eyes without having a crush, but ANYWAY I still can't talk to him without sounding like a complete idiot, a little kid, a stupid scared timid little kid and I HATE that. I have a soft voice that to me sounds booming sometimes but I wish I was booming to others so that they wouldn't think I had crushes on them. And why, if he has a girlfriend, does he act all fifth grade boy/girl around me? And why do I? It's stupid.
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