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Thursday May 31, 2001, 01:04

When I am at work I tend to think about a lot of things. Least of all, I think about work, which is generally the case these days (where these days is defined as "the past three days") as I have been working with a lot of stressed out people who want to put up a really complicated (and only marginally good) puppet festival and spend most of their time complaining and only part of the time talking to me about what they actually need (which is generally to push a couple of buttons on the computer that runs all of the lights in the theatre [except of course for the house lights, to which we need to send someone over to turn on and off between scenes while we are working out all the kinks in the actual running of said show] and sometimes to fix a light that happens to be pointed in the wrong direction).

And most of the rest of the time I think about girls.

When I'm not thinking about girls or work I am thinking about music. Or maybe physics, but I'm not particularly well-versed in either of these things, but at least I can have songs running through my head without breaking into a cold sweat and cursing relativity.

Which isn't so much to say that I'm thinking about music, but rather that I have music in my head. Yesterday I had Soul Coughing in my head and vowed to myself that if I ever made it home that I would listen to it (actually, it was just the line "you get the ankles and I'll get the wrists" that was running through my head - to such a point that I actually started saying it out loud, but I don't think anyone heard me, and if they had heard me, I don't imagine that they would have known what I was talking about). But I got home last night and the mood was totally wrong and I had about a billion emails to sort through and all I really wanted to do was go to sleep and so I listened to Liz Phair. And then some Talvin Singh.

So tonight, when I got home from work, I finally put in the Soul Coughing that I've needed to listen to for the past day or so. Yes. It is good.

...

"That's because I have cancer," she'd said, as we were sitting on the steps outside of the theatre.

I really didn't know if she was kidding or not. We were talking about headaches, having just taken a Tylenol to try to conquer the army of pain that was threatening to take over my frontal lobe.

She was smoking a cigarette, and I was looking at the tattoo on her foot. Escher it was. A woman's face, unraveled. It peeked out from beneath the strap of her shoe. Her hair had a tinge of purple that was brought out even more by the late afternoon sun. It was by no accounts warm out as spring had decided to take a vacation and left autumn in charge of the city for a couple of days. Her nose stud sparkled. Or at least I, in my incredibly smitten state, would perceive it to.

I kept fluctuating. First, I thought she was incredibly cute. But then I realized that it was because she was wearing a satiny purple shirt and I kept on looking at her breasts. So then I forced myself to look at her face, but I was sitting up in the audience and couldn't see her on stage. Then I decided that, in fact, I was only attracted to her breasts and that this made me a decidedly bad person, so I would have to stop this infatuation immediately.

But then we sat on the steps today, outside the theatre, waiting to go back in to rehearsal. And I noticed her smile. And her sense of humor. And despite the fact that she smokes, I think that I have a crush on her.

Spring may have vacated the city for the time being, but she has certainly left it awash in a sea of hormones.

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