not quite

not quite a reprise of the dinner with a poet all those months ago, as I bailed before dinner.

not quite drunk enough to write without inhibition.

not quite sure what to do about the fact I recognize the Ivy League's "hottest professor" according to an IvyGate poll from her photo on an online dating site from several years ago, that, worse, I stumbled over (and recognized. Take that, Proust!) while wondering whether I knew anyone at Princeton who could look at an old book on my behalf.

not quite sure why this article is so agonizing to write - I know this shit, for once.

not quite sure why I've never, properly, lived with someone before.

not quite sure why I'm writing tonight, but not recently, why I'm writing less than I did in those halcyon days of misery and black-on-the-outside.

not quite sure why it was so fabulous not to be Professor Me but merely Me in Arizona last weekend. Oh, wait....I'm tired of this public shit. I'm an intensely private person, until I decided to let you in, and then, well, bummer for you, cuz it's messy and plentiful and shit. But having no one to let in, never being able to let it out, being stymied by prepositions in two directions, well, yeah. fuck that.