Pretty Damn Happy I walked the sidewalk with my pod in my ears, grocery bags dangling from one hand, my stomach squeezed into laundry day pants, a raggedy laundry day shirt clinging to me in the wind and spelling out every fold of 36 years on this planet, slightly bulgy, slightly saggy, slightly old. I was happy.

The night before I sat at a bar with two girl friends and we talked life and art. And then we went up on stage in front of other friends and some strangers and all of us had fun, interesting 6 minutes of performance time. And afterward an old boyfriend and I wandered around, being friendly for the first time in years. Sometimes I think he loves me and doesn't realize it, the way I catch him looking at me, the way he constantly leans towards me, unless a young hot blonde is in the room. I am sure that his self-obsession leaves no room for seeing me, whatever feelings he may or may not recognize.

Neither of us felt like going home and being lonely so we went to his place and talked about him.

In between speaking of him we cover a couple of other topics too.

He constantly asks for my opinion on the people we know. I give it to him, having analyzed everyone myself, usually trying to compare them to me, to see where my damage is, do I do that? Why do they do that? Why do I? How clearly can I see someone else?

I'm sure he asks these questions of everyone he speaks with, looking for the info for manipulation and grading levels of association. Fuckable? Not fuckable? Cool enough? Not cool enough? Cooler than me? Not Cooler than me? There's always a measuring game going on in his head.

He gave me advice on my set, the one where I read the beginning of my memoirs. He advised on how I needed to cut, get to the punch, make sure I entertain the audience. He wasn't entertained by how I am starting the beginning of my life story, I'm guessing, though he would never simply say that. I could hear in his advice what he thought.

I tried to explain I wanted to know what he thought of the writing, that I was there to hear the words out loud, not to impress an audience. I don't mind their silence, that's when I hear them listening. I hate the chitchat, you've lost them. He has never grasped that part, the workshopping of a different type of work on that stage. His life is for the applause and laughter.

Then it's back into his world. He knows I have an honesty disease, and when I am drifting off to sleep on a couch that is like truth serum, and he asked me how I see him.

I told him. And I remember why I did the dating thing with him at all, he laughed gently as I told him my truth of him. He tried to listen and he wrote it down on his computer.

I think my last words to him were, "you can't build yourself like you build an act." As I drifted off, listening to him tap and type, struggling to become a grown up with no skills on how to do so and believing he's already made it.

And this morning, after left his apartment I ate sushi from the grocery store, and took the train home, and chatted with another friend on iChat, and did my laundry, and went shopping, and then skipped merrily home to drop off the soy milk and high fiber/whole grain everything, I realized how happy I was. Happy I didn't have sex with him, happy I wasn't him, happy at my life and knowing I am exactly who I always wanted to be.  ¶ 12:57 PM