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Tuesday March 06, 2001, 23:41

This web site has not been receiving the attention it deserves. I mean, really, it's been around for quite some time now, and I've just been plugging along with my everyday life, not really thinking about it, or even worrying that it's going lonely. "Is that ok?" I ask myself. It's my site, so I should be able to do anything I want with it, but I still feel like there's a part of me that owes something to these pages.

On the other hand, if I don't have anything to say, as is the case currently, then I just fill the web with introspective and mostly self-indulgent and not-too-interesting commentary about nothing. Maybe about the grocery store, which I went to today so that I could "stock up" on eggs and milk and orange juice (two for five dollars, is that a good price?) and not much else, because really, it's cheaper to eat out than in. And I still haven't settled in here, and I've reached the point where it does not make sense to try to settle into a sublet any more since I will be moving out in three weeks anyway.

Three weeks. Which means that I've been here for eight weeks. Two months. I have something resembling a job right now, that does not seem to be paying me much, but which is holding my attention enough to bring me in to work on a Saturday. Willingly! To do something as mundane as reinstall Windows NT. About which I know next to nothing.

You know that thing where the stuff that you do for fun doesn't stay fun once you start to do it for money? Maybe that's what is happening here. Because I am doing it for the love of the company and the vision (whatever that might be), it compels me to keep going in to work. If I am given a paycheck and a more concrete roll, this might change.

Does this mean that I have to resurrect the startup journal? It is a startup, but not of the dotcom variety, though most of my duties are related to the web. But this one is not so much secret. I work at SmartTix, and yes, the web site is not something that I particularly pleased with. But the vision? Very much. And this means that it's got something over my last two jobs (well, the computer-type ones that threatened to pay me and make me lots of money in the long run -- this one threatens to do neither).

What this new job has done for me, however, is occupy my mind with nothing but nerdy thoughts, day in and day out. That would be thoughts of databases and ColdFusion and its ilk and when not those, then thoughts of business and streamlining and providing some level of customer satisfaction and such. Which leaves very little time for anything vaguely resembling the creative thoughts that would drive my desire to write pretty things about the girl that I saw walking down the street, to whom I tried to flash a smile but merely ended up thinking about flashing a smile before she passed me by, this being New York and people moving much faster here.

This is still, however, New York, and there are pretty girls aplenty. None of them like talking to me.

Take pause. Inside: Do I write about the trail of blood currently running down my arm? Consider: it could be made to sound pretty; something about the beauty of the most mundane of the events in a day. Secondary: it could be thought to be the sight of a seriously disturbed individual. Pause for a trip to the loo to clean blood, lest it drips on white t-shirt. Steps taken: rinse in sink, avoiding unusually warm tap water with pleasant mixing of two faucet settings. Travel to front entry-way to gather toilet paper purchased at todays grocery outing (see above). Resolution: write about bleeding arm from meta-writing perspective to leave reader thinking: "He ended up writing about it while writing about thinking about writing about it. How tacky."

Interesting juxtaposition. Could it be situations like the one outlined above, or the mere existence of that thought process that people can pick up on and decide that they no longer want to talk to me after spending a relatively innocent and fun-filled evening together, post-theatre? I refer to the girl whom I met a couple of weeks ago who does not call me. I phoned her twice, the last time yesterday, and will do so no longer. I must have broken some sort of protocol rule (according to some I know at least), but if nothing else, I just wanted a friend. I mean, come on, the people that I know are great, but they're a limited bunch, and variety. Spice of life. Something like that.

Point? There really is no point. It is still snowing, and what I would like more than anything is to be sitting in a tiny coffee shop somewhere in the city gazing into the eyes of someone who is gazing back at me.

Note: gazing. There must be gazing happening. Longingly would be a plus too. I have not gazed longingly in a long time into the eyes of a girl with whom I was particularly taken.

Perhaps I should attend more rock and roll shows. Contact me if you are in New York and would like to go to a rock and roll show with me. Define as you wish.

Also note that I am bad with fractions, as was witnessed today as a friend tried to explain to me that because the yield of a bond is inversely proportional to its cost, mortgage traders often buy high and sell low, when referring to the "spread" (as the difference between bond prices and mortgage prices is known). I think. It took me forever and a day to figure out that increasing the bottom number of a fraction decreases the result, and vice versa. That, it seems, is an inverse relationship.

Luckily, said friend did not let on how much of a dork he thought I when presenting this problem and being returned the blank stare of one who passed the easy math course in college by failing all relevant tests.

I am, in fact procrastinating. Am willing to do more. Send women.

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