The last sentence only took me half an hour

There are two kinds of people in this world: those that obsess over e-mail and meticulously craft responses in which all conceivable angles are first weighed out and carefully edited and pieced together and later rethought and regretted, and those who feel like the internet doesn't actually really affect real life and you could almost say anything you want with next to no consequences. The overall trend of the universe tends towards the former, but for me it's more like a problem.
Let's ignore the meta-levels of irony of the fact that I am writing an exceedingly candid blog.
I, of course, lead my real life only on the two extremes, because I am cursed with no head-to-mouth filter but a highly-paranoid behavioral self-analysis side.
4 e-mails, a cancelled lunchdate and another train conversation later and I still have no concept as to whether this guy has an inkling of interest in me.
An unusually slow week at work combined with the receipt of several 2-3-paragraph e-mails from the caltrain crush has made for some epic analysis prior to each 2-3-paragraph e-mail response.
For some reason on the train I ended up talking to him about sports, mostly Olympic, which I know very little about, and generally babbling shallowly about roommates and novels. Making an accurate impression in 33-minute increments is a lot of pressure.
But the really sad thing is that it might just come down to whether I'm beautiful enough for him or not. Which I may or may not be.
But it was a killer look he gave me when he said it was nice talking to me, and have a good night.

My ex-boyfriend (who is, incidentally, now moving to the forest) has said it seems really adult to meet strangers in public places and date them: something I said I'd tried to do (in Los Angeles of all awful places) but never successfully. There's definitely part of me that wonders whether I could successfully date somebody I didn't meet through a friend of a friend, through some kind of institution, through alcohol consumption, or even (I'm certainly not courageous enough yet for) the Internet. The actual fact would change all of my conceptions of the limits of the universe regarding self and otherness and the ability to relate to others.

I went to see Frank Portman read from King Dork after work. I'm halfway through his book, and half-fascinated by how much a Young Adult genre writer can get away with. Makes me think it might be the most promising genre to break into. I'm not even sure what makes his book appropriate for Young Adults except that it is set in High School. There are some serious High School sexual experimentation scenes which I find fascinating he squeezed successfully past the publishers. I asked him about things I suspected were puzzles in the book, and he basically answered that whatever doesn't get revealed in the book is something he played with but never bothered to figure out himself. Like I said, those YA writers can get away with anything. There were only about 20 people there, and at least a third were obsessive fans wearing homemade "Chi-Mo's" patches and MTX shirts, taking pictures with him and having him sign album liner notes. I'm rarely starstruck, maybe I couldn't relate because it feels like he's more of a friend of a friend of a friend than a celebrity of any kind, partly because their drummer, Jim, used to have the radio show right before mine. I was pretty impressed that Dr. Frank still had such serious fans. They were way more interested in his being a rockstar than they were in him being a writer of any kind, even though his talk and his blog made it sound like he thinks the book is going to make him famous and give him the recording budget he wants. Literary fame is a mysterious thing.