Dear E.M. Forster,

I know everybody wants to have a catchphrase these days, a memorable "zinger," if you will. Well, I've long taken yours to heart, reminding myself that when dealing with other people, one should strive to "only connect."

Only connect. Simple enough advice. But to be honest, Mr. Forster, that is easier said than done. My attempts to connect often inexplicably fail. It's not that the gentlemen don't like me. No, they say I am funny and beautiful and kind. They say this right before they stand me up for a museum date, or pretend to not see me in a crowd, or abruptly switch from affection to apathy. Just between us girls, it's made me feel kind of blue.

As you can imagine, it is often tempting to stay at home alone with a bag of Bugles and the DVD of Texas Rangers (have you seen this? Tom Skerritt is phenomenal). This "only connect" business is no small task, and I sometimes think that maybe your pal Sartre had the right idea about other people.

In the end, though, maybe both of you can be right. Maybe you mean that the important part isn't the connection, but having an open mind and gentle heart. Or who knows, maybe you just made the whole thing up as a potential slogan for a wireless telephone company. Either way, I'll someday live in fragments no more. I'll send you a postcard when I get there.

Onward,
annie.

6.20.2002

Do you ever have the sort of morning when something so wonderful happens that you're positive the day can't possibly offer anything sweeter? Today I got to rub an alligator's bony back, play with a toddler kangaroo, tickle a cockatiel, cuddle a baby wallaby, and sit two inches from a pair of baby white Bengal tigers (named Willie and Axl after two great American musicians). This morning also revealed that Steve Irwin, that crazy Australian bloke they call the Crocodile Hunter, is not really an animal hunter. For years I had steadfastly refused to watch him, imagining that his program followed him around Australia as he hunted and killed crocodiles, a tireless, wacky killer in khaki.

As it turns out, Steve is actually a friend to animals. He's not the crocodile hunter, he's the crocodile helper. He finds scary reptilian beasts and rescues them from poacher and environmental peril alike. He even saves the terrifying ones that would sure-as-shit eat you alive if they had the chance, like snakes and bunnies. Why didn't anybody explain this before?

In doing some further research on our friend Steve, his patient wife Terry, and their daughter Bindi, I discovered that Steve is not a vegetarian. This seemed at odds with his whole "animals deserve to live" philosophy. Doesn't Steve think it's more than slightly odd that he devotes his day to helping his little friends, only to shove one of their less endangered brethren down his throat for dinner? His explanation to Scientific American was that it takes less land to raise a cow than it does to raise the proper amount of vegetables for him to survive. But what about the land it takes to raise the vegetables for Bessie to eat, Steve? Not to go all PETA on your ass, but why don't you just say that you simply can't pass up a Filet-o-Fish? That whole situation reminds me of my hometown's annual Humane Society Help The Animals fundraiser, which is… you guessed it, a chicken dinner.

6.19.2002

I love the nights just before summer begins, the way the evenings quietly buzz with anticipation and time ticks by slowly. Just walking around is an activity in itself, because you're bound to run into somebody, and perhaps they've got plans, and maybe you'll tag along. Or boys on bicycles zip by, and your eyes meet for a moment, and you both give each other a flirtatious "I'll never see you again" smile. Last night I ate al fresco at Mirai Sushi. The company was good, the food was passable, but the atmosphere was simply awful. Tube-topped yuppies were everywhere, their cell phones piercing the night's quiet din. Our waiter was not very friendly, and when Karinsa asked politely for the bill, he seemed to think she was joking. Come on now, there's nothing amusing about getting the bill.

Speaking of joking, what do you call a Frenchman in sandals? Do you give up? Do you? Ready? Philippe Philopp.

6.18.2002

This is my night: Red vinyl sofa and dim bulbs lighting yellowed walls. Slumped with uncharacteristically bad posture, eyes on the checkerboard floor, words thrown into a notebook. Maybe a little small talk with K., perhaps a letter to Trevor, and if I'm feeling especially daring, a photobooth picture. I like to take them not only when feeling happy, but when feeling glum; if your scrapbooks are filled with only happy memories, it's too easy to romanticize the past. In the future I will look back and remember things purely, with a mixture of nostalgia and gratitude. At least, that's the plan.

For the past month or so, my roommate Karinsa and I have been enjoying her eight-bit Nintendo system. For the most part, we just play Super Mario Brothers 3 for hours on end. Last night, as we ate mushroom and cheese sandwiches, I finally reached King Koopa's palace. "Ooh, he's so cute," we squealed. "See how he's trying to look menacing? Aww." As we laughed, I handily beat that mofo and saved the princess. Then we were stricken with a great existential crisis: what will we do now that there's no more video game to beat? Does this mean I have to start being social again?

6.17.2002

In approximately twenty minutes I will be sitting in my dentist's chair. As I stretch out my legs, Dr. Gracias will ask if I'd like the back massager on (yes, please). She'll prepare to fix my teeth, and I will nervously shift in the seat. As the needle comes forward, I'll start sweating and clutching the armrest, and then a little novocaine pinch, and then everything will be numb. "So," I'll ask, "Got any more of that stuff? For my head? My heart?"

And now I'm back from the dentist, my tongue moving over the newness of the filling. As it turns out, the dentist decided that the cavities were so small that novocaine wasn't necessary. So the drilling occurred with no numbness, and I didn't get to present the grimly witty request listed above. At least I'll be able to brag about my resilience and toughness all week. "Yeah, I totally had fillings done with no novocaine. That shit is for amateurs," I'll tell an enthralled gaggle of mopheads at Thursday's mod night.

I re-read Prufrock again today. I'm not a fan of poetry—I find much of it too flowery, the rest too jumbled—but this poem always puts things into perspective for me. I think that's one of the things I appreciate most about the poem, that at the end of the day, I did dare to eat the peach, and I'm better for it.