Oh it is wonderfully characteristic to have me lie on the bed and say "Oh he's such a loser," while Sarah (in her droll fashion) agrees that he should have fallen at my feet. Yeah, yeah.

It will be such an alien and bizarre thing to date an American. I just can barely imagine myself doing it, you know? I don't even think I know what American men are like anymore. I try to piece together a memory - the baseball player in my history class, my professors of course, my brother, my father. But I am much more confident, and I doubt that will go away when I return. I'll go to Swarthmore, I'll go to Haverford. It'll be grand.

I also kinda get the impression sometimes that I'll be the sort of girlfriend they'll tell stories about to their wives. "She turned out to be crazy..." I feel like with most men I definitely hold off on letting them know the horribly, fantastically weird parts of myself. I guess I would like someone to like the weirdness from the start! This is not too much to ask for.

I'd be a much better crazy girlfriend if I had miraculous technique, though.

Before I went out on Wednesday night, I fussed and grew nervous. "It'd be so much easier not to bother," I said to Sarah. "There are all these things you have to worry about. You worry that he doesn't like you, you worry that you aren't good enough. You have to worry that you aren't a very good match, you know? You have to worry if its worth the risk." She smiled at me, and said "It's worth it, though, because it can be an awful lot of fun." It can! It can.

I'm tired, today. I went to bed at nine last night and slept for twelve hours. Theoretically I'm going for a walk, if I can unglue myself from this chair.

2003-03-22, eccentric

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