2002 JUL 19 TWENTY-SOMETHING AND LOST AS FUCK

Alright, so suck it in and spit it out; heal yourself and tell me the truth, because I'm getting annoyed. Can you just tell me the truth? It can't be that hard, can it?

So, it all seemed fine at the beginning. Hi, I'm me, and you? Yes, you're you. Nice to meet you. This means we have a relationship of sorts now, yes? Nice. Glad to know that. Glad we can move on!

Oh, you can't go out tonight? Okay. Had no idea you lived so far away. Alright, next time I'll think about doing it earlier. Earlier's better, anyway. We could go eat, chill, do whatever and whatnot. Shimmy shimmy to the Brooklyn Bridge and yell out to the sea. But yeah, later.

Oof, this is becoming a period piece. How long has it been since I met you that faithful afternoon? Unplanned, surprising and filled with glee! Well, alright, so it wasn't the bloody Disneyland parade, but yeah, it was nice and quiet and almost beautiful. (I hope that went both ways.) Something like that.

You know, I think I know what it is. You think this is for real. You really, really do! I'm sorry, dear, but it's a joke. Well, alright, it's not a joke, but it's not meant to be taken so seriously. I mean, we're kids. We have time. Everything we do now is so ephemeral. It's, it's a simple sweetness; kind of like being six years old and thinking Santa Claus really exists. (Although, I never fell for that trick!)

Seriously, this is simpler than it seems. Everything in life is simpler than it seems. You seem like a cool person, but I don't love you. I love my parents, my siblings and I love Cadbury's Flake. But I don't love you. How could I? You never gave me a chance.

I'm leaving now. I tried, but I don't think I failed. It's more like you did; and now, the ball's in your court. Do what you want. I'll be here, somewhere. I won't exactly be waiting, but I won't be stubborn and unaccepting. I'm a nice guy. And revolutions are part of life. See you around.

2002 JUL 14 THE BASTILLE FELL, AND YOU FELL IN LOVE

This morning at 4:30AM, I found myself walking the streets of the West Village, wary but alert, taking random snapshots of the crisp night. It's funny how the area has come to define itself: On the surface, filled with storefonts of the independent stylists of our generation, while underneath the epitome of the crass commercialist nature of the cold, metal 20th century capitalism. It never ends; as well as it never should.

I turned onto Sixth Avenue via Prince Street only to find myself amidst a mini-park of sorts in front of a large, ominous apartment building. Outside, benches lay barren in the humid chill of the Manhattan summer. All of the benches, except one: There was an awkward sort of love in the air at that very moment. Two people—strangers? lovers? neighbours or opposites?—who knows and who cares, for a moment was being shared. And that, my friend, is something you never meddle with.

The woman, lonely and in her mid-30s, had a face that made the night shiver with sadness; her eyes deep and dark, her lips soft and wet; her heart filled with the liquid joys of a millisecond of happiness. The man, rugged and strong, a bit battered by the world and undoubtedly stung a few times to the heart by softness turned hard.

The connection between them: What looked like, from my distored angle, a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka being gulped down to drown out the day's worries. Drunk alone, it would have been suicide. A call for sickness, of near dementia. But together, it became an experience to be savored. A negative utopian fairy tale that Winston Smith would have been proud of; of the chance that once upon a crystal moon, sharing your sorrow with someone else can be most beautiful thing in the world.

And sometimes, you can even fall in love. Sometimes.