all the parts of that short story I was supposed to write (to date)
they're not in chronological order necessarily;
they're just fragments at the moment

Her gaze intrigued him--a mechanical stare, evolved and sharp enough to pierce his awkward glance, meticulously implanting itself in the part of his brain thousands of years of evolution saved for the most important of original thoughts and motives: sex.

Analyzing and counter-analyzing, the 1.16 seconds during which their eyes collided transferred more between the two than every spoken, written or otherwise physically communicated thought in the entirety of existence.

No, he thought.

A single conclusion for the most complex of thoughts, a decision thousands of years in the making, a decision that in 1.16 seconds evolved as such: [...]


He read the words a fourth time, the penultimate time, noting that he’d forgotten the ending punctuation—a mere period—on the most unrealistic and practical request ever readied for the “Daily Gazette-Democrat.” He leaned forward nearly pressing his nose against the illuminated pixels, squinting—more so out of habit than necessity—thoroughly disappointed. He didn’t notice any misspellings, a sure sign that the ad was riddled with them. He picked up a red pen—more so out of habit than necessity—and stuck it directly between incisor and canine as he examined his would be masterpiece for the last time:

Average man seeks female companion.
Must be perfect.
Must exist.

His first line, if judged as anything less than perfect, was true. Genetics, God and the rest left him an inexorable commonality found more often in forgotten, yellowed paper or freshly erased chalk than a man of reason and lust. His life denoted the mean of all existence, the exact average of looks, wealth, ambition and intelligence. If asked to identify him in a crowd of three any person would fail a vast majority of the time; he is the epitome of normal, the pinnacle of plain, a nameless male. Having numerous times been asked, “Have we met before,” he decided, one afternoon, to respond with a snide if honest remark, “If you’ve ever been to a baseball game and looked at the Jumbotron just as the star player hits a record setting homerun into the drooling crowd, I was that guy with the nosebleed seats in the home team jersey holding a generic beer, biting into an overpriced hotdog, mitt in my lap staring in horror as the minority gentlemen next to me catches the ball—not because he’s a minority mind you, but because it was supposed to be mine: the ball, the fame, the money on eBay—and hands it to the kid in a wheelchair three rows down. I’m that guy, the guy that secretly wants to push the kid down some stairs, screaming, ‘Wheels don’t entitle you to any better life than mine,’ as I grab the ball from his fanny pack just to throw it at him when he hits the bottom. If anywhere, that’s probably where you’ve seen me.” As expected, his answer achieved the desired result: people stopped asking him.


Her heart choked momentarily as she saw him sitting idly at the bar. Consciously overwhelmed and excited as such, she visually consumed his presence--and by association, his life--with the ferocity of a lioness strangling its helpless prey. That is the man from the ad, she said, never having met him. It must be. He's the only guy here whose eyes are honest enough to admit his sexual motivation--admit without guilt, that is.

She was right. He placed the ad to find a mate--in the literal, objective, sense of the word--but not any mate. Must be perfect. Must exist. His eyes did betray his motivation, but his mouth would have as well if anyone had asked. He wasn't ashamed. he didn't feel guilty. He felt moral.

He wasn't here to find some brainless slut, some insignificant one night stand with whom sex would mean little more than the exchange of fluids, phone numbers, and shame. He was there to conquer her, the perfect woman--the woman that would not only want to have sex with him but would do so with the ultimate desire in mind: her own.

And there she was--standing not twenty feet from his embrace, staring at him as he restlessly stirred his drink and fondled a button on his flat black shirt.


Do you know the joy of not having to talk in abstractions? Of being able to discuss a philosophy of living instead of a "theory" of "life?" Of hearing people make objective statements about objective material and not having them scoffed at? Of discussing literature not in terms of its critique on Western culture? Of analyzing characters by their actions--their virtues and their flaws--and not by their secret ambition to sleep with their mother or their Marxist influences? Of meeting people--teachers, even--who, like yourself, refuse to accept the world as they're told it is but, instead, accept the world as it is?

I do. As of 4:33 p.m. on Friday, February 15, 2008.

It's not too often that people can recognize milestones in their intellectual development. This date and time may be one of mine. That's why I'm recording it so officially. Granted, it seems a little silly to me. I'm not a big fan of internet "diaries." And I don't want this space--which I've used more as an open invitation to all of existence to analyze my thoughts and actions--to become a daily report of my life. I try to keep it more about analysis than reportage.

Nonetheless, there it is. A report of my life. But, I hope, more so a report on my development as a human being--so that I may look back at this post and remember, fondly, the moment I truly stopped being ashamed of what I believe.