part of the problem

Maybe not everyone should have access to my thoughts, which lately are coming out in the form of blog -- sometimes blah. I mean, maybe somethings aren't blog worthy. And, then again, maybe everything is and should be.

A girl of my past, one I still talk to, e-mail, think about, wrote and said she might be coming to Portland for Spring Break. I was a finalist.

'Great,' I said, 'I'm for that. Stay with me, however, I might have moved by then -- see previous blog. What? You don't read my blog? Don't know carsonation? I'll send it to you. You can read what I've done since I've been here, since I left you in Albuquerque.'


'Wait ... fuck ... ah, shit ... maybe ... you shou-.' Damn. Too-fucking late. Message sent.

Two days pass. I write a haiku while sitting on the john:

We check our e-mail,
our voicemail and mailboxes;
we turn but don't talk.

She writes me again.

"Interesting...sounds like you're not only having apartment problems, but girl problems...that sucks. Anyways, had mentioned my spring breakpossibilities to a friend and I believe he invited himself to for two? Let's talk soon-tootaloo."

He? Who's he?

What did I do? I don't know. That's part of my problem: I don't know.

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