Early A.M. spent walking around a prison. Two prisons, really, one about to be torn down and a revamped version next door. We looked at their exercise facilities and their lunches, both uninspiring and mostly healthy in theory. The building smelled a lot like hospital, standard issue institutional cleaning fluid, maybe some kind of psychological warfare. And I'm pretty sure that high school architects moonlight in the correctional stream, "Hey, if we switch out these cell blocks with classrooms we can save some time here."

It's currently miserable out. Wet, cold, winter. The dusk lights are already on.

Weekend. Accidentally drunk on local microbrew at a place people don't really drink, mini golf/thai/movie date, listening to friends argue about trig and quadrants over Sunday coffee. Ah, really.

"I forgot to get pictures of you with cookies and beer."
"I feel my life is being unfairly documented!"

I keep dating because I'm too ambivalent to stop. I've identified that this guy, that I keep seeing but nothing really happens with, is still in love with his last girlfriend and afraid of me. He investigated my romantic past via someone we both know and discovered what R does. And brought it up, casually, in conversation. I explained the limited dating pool of the double degreed.

I've dated so many professing to be really attracted to successful females. Unfortunately, it's more than a day job and a Stewardess Barbie uniform. I do not wear the thigh highs for the benefit of peeling them off burlesque-style at the end of the day. Well, not solely.

If they manage to get past that I may make more money and/or have a more presitigious job and/or wear deadly suits, and many of them do because none of these things infringe on the time or space that we actually spend together, they will: hate my friends, make fun of my weekend activities (the Globe&Mail weekend edition captures, apparently, a very specific demographic), and be intimidated by the experiences that tend to go along with being in school for a long time. Removed from my usual habitat, I'm perfectly comfortable with draft beer and Mexican wrestling (it's practically my heritage), yet rare is he who can withstand a black tie tour, my friends telling stories about wandering through the 'stans, and a penchant for poly-econ lit.

Further complaining about why life is really, like, hard to follow. Because what this would really boil down to is (a) a regular preoccupation with missing R yet being unable to address it and (b) the fairly consistent objective of finding someone to make out with, to distract myself from missing R, being a catagorical failure.

Less investigating my recent romantic past, more making out.