What to do. What to do. Antisocial evenings have been a rarity lately, but tonight I'll stay alone. Friends are with other friends and watching movies with boys. I sit alone. A much needed seclusion. What to do. There's always Grounds. But it's 12 am, which means I'll have to find something interesting elsewhere. Pisanello's. Talk. Tell some stories. I was just here for hours. I'll be on my way now. To Howard's. Picture this: Man in forties, wearing a silk shirt with yellow and orange flames, thick mustache, not proportional to large face and huge bonch. He dances alone. He plays air guitar to the blues music that's blaring from the stage. Air Guitar. He's drunk and hilarious. Must contain laughter. Can't stop staring at this large man playing air guitar. The music is just what I needed. A hippy dances in the corner. A release for him. He lets his hair down, and beats his hands on the wall. Getting something out of his system. A middle aged woman goes crazy on the frets of a guitar. Makes it sound like a violin. Makes it sound like it's backwards. Makes me smile. She was damn good. It's 2 am. Talk to my friends older sister for two minutes. She looks and talks just like my friend. I'd like to tell her, but she already knows. I'm sure she's heard it a million times. But it's so uncanny. I'm wearing sandals. Walk to the Grill. My usual booth. People swarm in. I can't stop staring again. Fat man with a tattoo on his left arm. He's wearing a denim, sleeveless shirt. His arms are flabby. What is he trying to be. A man with a small head chews with his mouth open. I start looking at people's teeth. They're all so different in every mouth. Weird. People are really pouring in. Should I move. I know if I ask Niki will tell me not to. It's always nice to have just one sane booth she says. Someone quiet and keeping to themselves. Only coffee to refill every once and again. A man with black gloves and a black shirt approaches. Mumble mumble. No they aren't trying to tell me to move. It's him and a girl. You two can sit here if you want. They do. Brian and Tina. She plays volleyball, he has a degree in Marketing. They met on the internet. She's going to be a math teacher. He lives in Ann Arbor. She, in Bowling Green. They met on the internet. We talk. It's beautiful. I don't have a clue who these people are, I'll never see them again. He wants to marry her, start a family, get a dog. White. Picket. Fence. The home fries are good. Extra crispy? Sure. They'll do that. They choose to stay and sit with me. She does this thing where she smiles and sticks her tongue out, and sort of bites it. Interesting. Does she think it's cute? Does Brian? It's takes forever to get their food. They finally eat. I have a smoke and tell Pat, the cook, about my new "friends." Brian and Tina leave. I wish them luck, and the best life has to offer. Brian tells me to keep writing. I wonder if they'll get married. Have kids. A dog. A fence. I'll never see them again. Strange. I'm at the computer. I start thinking:

What a great night. So full of wonderful interludes. I'm wondering a lot. About myself. I hate feeling like people are laughing at me. Part of me says, "Who the fuck care?" The other says, "I do." I wish so many things right now. I wish: I wasn't so talkative, I was in a different place, I could make new friends, Lenny and Carl were here, I was moved into my apt, I didn't say that I would work a double shift tomorrow, I was stunning, I could figure it out. Life, what do you have to offer me? I keep getting parking tickets. That's what pennies are for. I was thinking today, about how attractive boys are attractive, but full of themselves because they know their attractive. So that's out. Ugly boys are, well, ugly. I like the boys in the middle. The one's who have learned to depend on their mind instead of their face. Overtime, they become the most attractive. I smell like Grill. Ew. My brain hurts. Time for bed. Stupid brain. I'm beginning to think that's I have two parts of my brain that work against each other. I just wish I could figure it out. Know what to think all the time. Know when to stop. Mind reading would be a horrible gift to have. I'm glad no one can read minds. However, sometimes, I think people can. I get really paranoid about it. Someone will react a certain way after I think something, and I'll think, "What if they're reading my thoughts... I know, I'll think something horrible about them, like they smell like english muffins, and if they look up at me, with a strange look on their face, I'll know, that they can read my mind." Either I'm completely wrong, or those mind readers are really good at keeping control over themselves. I smell like Grill and many many Cigarettes. Man, sleep now. I wish I didn't care about what people thought. That's my last rant. I don't really care, but I'd really like to know. I try to be an honest person, but people really don't like that at all. They could at least appreciate it, don't ya think. Man, why can't we all just be honest. I think I'll get my lip pierced next Thursday. And by the way, it turns out that it's FebRuary, not Febuary. Coulda fooled me. Damn. Let's write something thoughtful to end this with... a resolution. I hate those. To sing at Howard's. That would be very cool. I think........ And I guess that's all that counts.