it ought to be in an anonymous journal somewhere online, rather than a dating site. From there, I would write deep, beautiful entries about, oh, life and love and all the things that I've done, the things that have hurt, the things that have worked or failed or even failed to happen. But I'm not doing this right, because if I was, I would have started that journal years ago an populated with things that I'm proud of, and I haven't done that. 

So let's pretend.

Let's pretend that this is a blog that I've filled with beautiful things, and accumulated an audience, and am about to close the whole thing down for good, because this will be a lot more meaningful that way:

I'm sorry I haven't found you yet. Truthfully, I haven't been looking very hard, and I have a hundred excuses why. Maybe we met once and I scared you off. Maybe you took a look at the "asexual" on my profile and backed away. Maybe my putting it there in the first place was more self-destructive than an attempt at honesty--sometimes I have trouble telling the difference. Because if you met me and you wanted that--yes, "that"--and I loved you, I might say yes. And I'm terrified it would shatter me, because I don't know if I can put myself back together a second time. And what's worse, is that I can't promise you anything for sure because I don't know. 

But I will keep trying. If you're out there, be patient. I'm coming.

I know some folks have other things to do than hang around OkCupid, but I would like to encourage everybody out there to at least empty your mailboxes, 'cause otherwise I can't send you messages :(

There was a post here, but someone who responded called me on the fact that I was being a hater, so I've taken it down. I'm ashamed of myself and sorry if I've hurt feelings. Now to put 'misandry' on my List of Things to Fix.

A 95 average for my first quarter in grad school. Booyah!

This is a question for anyone and everyone: if someone suddenly stops returning your letters via this service, is it better to assume that interaction is over and not speak to them again, or write back and asked if something's gone wrong?

The ocean on the edge of the world. A man comes out of his salty house to squint at the morning. The clouds are moving too fast to be read: an island, a gryphon, a thimble. No telling what the day will bring. He goes back inside to the breakfast his wife is making. A tall woman with net-like hair, she had been a mermaid in her youth and caught him in its tangles one morning while he was out fishing. Now she merely has sore feet and dry skin that flakes off under his scratching. She stands at the black stove frying eggs for him and seaweed for her in a scorched pan with pats of butter as precious as daylight. She asks about the weather and he tells her as she scrapes food onto their plates. She nods as though it means something more to her than it does to him. She knows things at odd times. "I'll take down the wash, then," she says, but doesn't explain. He doesn't ask. After breakfast he'll go down to the beach to check his nets and see what has washed ashore overnight. The sand is thick with bottles and bottle-fragments that flash like treasure when the sun hits them. He brings the most attractive ones home for their color, and they have so many that sometimes he breaks old ones on purpose. When he finds them they are mainly filled with seawater and sand, but occasionally a shell has wedged itself inside, or a fish who swam in and was unable to find its way out again. Sometimes there are messages inside, waterlogged and disintegrating: "Dear Cathy, I never should have...", "the price of corn on the mainland has dr...aga...", and once mysteriously, "The key is lost." He thinks of all the things lost in the ocean--buoys, lives, fishhooks, years, angry words, parting words, ships' sails, ships' cats, vows, rings, promises, futures--and wonders if they'll all end up on the end of his fishing-lines. Streams of shining flotsam like a snail's trail. 

My niece was born, red-faced and screaming with the indignity of a C-section, at one o'clock this morning. Go forth, my minions, and dance in her honor!

Damn. Watching "Glee Project" makes me wish I'd never stopped taking singing lessons.

It's been five years since our beloved English Cockers passed away, but as of Saturday we will have a new four-legged member of our family and there is much rejoicing.

Yay!

This question is open to everyone who might want to answer. Really, what are you like when you're in love? I tend to be

• Serious: love affects human beings to a ridiculous degree and therefore it's not something I think should be f'd with
• Tender: it would not be at all out of character to ask the one I love to dance, want to read them poetry, or give them foot-rubs
• Playful: I always thought love was a kind of supreme opening-up to many sorts of happiness. Let's play like we're children at the beginning of the world.

So, how about you?

Whoops, I should have made it clear that you don't have to just use these three options, or three descriptors at all. List as many as you feel, and of any sort you feel.