2002 MAY 18 NOT MANUFACTURED FOR EVERYDAY USE

This guy in the subway was like, "Yo, man, I know where you've been... them eyes, man, you were at happy hour all day, huh?"

What's funny is that he's as wrong as can be. But I couldn't tell him why. Telling strangers your life story is a shocking idea in person—but here? In writing? It's strangely different. Another world. Amazing.

I wish I could lay my life out for you. Every intricate inch, detail, every mundane snippet that would somehow combine to create a world so surreal that it would blow you away. You'd sit back, take a sip of your over-iced coke, munch on some popcorn and enjoy the view. Words would streak past you, circumventing your own reality. And it would be beautiful, delicate, smooth.

But I can't. It's a Saturday morning, a drowsy one at that. The sun is lazy, so clouds are substituting. And for some reason, this overcast fits the mood oh so well. I read somewhere yesterday that there are only rainy days and there are nonrainy days. I forget where, maybe another Murakami novel. But it's true. Rain has this way of making you feel comfortable and cold at once, a sort of oxymoronic combination that somehow works out. Somehow makes sense.

And amidst my reflections on these drizzly windows, I find that I can't open my mouth to you. I feel like plastic, pre-configured for your consumption. I have guidelines for public portrayal and regulations to follow. Weakness is not on the menu; imaging and branding is our core constituency.

Coming home tonight, I got out one stop early at Brooklyn Bridge and walked the rest home. In the rain. Kind of refreshing, but not something I'll readily do. Doing something so silly makes me feel so much more at ease. In the subway, I always have to act politically correct. Sometimes, sitting next to people who give off nothing but troubling vibes, I can't help but think bad things. But that's where it ends, because I know I have to control myself.

I guess that's why walking home in the rain is so very nice. At 4AM. So very nice, indeed.

2002 MAY 16 BATTLING THE NATURAL STATE OF AFFAIRS

And this is how it goes: I miss your sweet lips as bitter melodies continue to tap my shoulder.

The story of no expectations, of life and in love, unravels like a post-modern tale of greed and hope. And I'd like to tell you that story, here and now, with secrets and lies embedded amongst truth.

In birth, we come into this world with no expectations. We're clean of hopes and dreams, and the only things that strike us odd are hunger, thirst and pain. But soon, we develop and realize our wants and material needs. In time, as we reach adulthood, ingrained in us are expectations of a life that we were never aware of.

So, here's the critical juncture: There are inherent expectations in life that are created by our upbringing, our surroundings, our friends and the media. These are natural and systematic. They will exist no matter what, as they are as much a part of us as our beating heart.

But there's another level of expectations—an augmented one. These are expectations of the spoiled, when we lose control and let our imagination run wild. They are unsystematic and ultimately superfluous. They're lethal because we let them be, and they hurt us because we are lenient.

You see, when I told her, "no expectations," I expected her to understand. It was fairly simple: Let things take their course. Don't expect anything to happen. If something does, great. Otherwise, our lives will continue as usual. But there's the trick: Everyone expects something even when told not to. And a mistake occurs: "Why did you expect?" The answer is quite simple: It is impossible for us to not expect something from someone. As I said, there are certain inherent expectations in life. When you say, "don't expect anything," one of the natural expectations that develops is my need to make sure you don't expect anything at all.

Anything. Yeah, it's a catch-22 and a tongue twister rolled into one. No doubt. But it's simpler than that.

As long as we rid ourselves of augmented expectations, much of which are driven by hopes and dreams, we are fine. It's like betting on 100:1 odds, losing and then complaining. You had it coming, the odds were against you, why did you expect to win? Did you not? Did you expect lady luck to spoon feed you?

This is coming out more complicated than I thought. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, about how my own worst tendencies are driven by such augmented expectations. But in order for me to cleanse myself of such, I had to first decipher this mystery. I'm working on it. This is definitely easier to explain in person. Or maybe if I had a clearer head.