It's when that stupid little green line appears beneath your freshly composed prose--that special moment reminding you that your grammar is imperfect, that it needs a but of tweaking and rearranging to join the rest of the coherent literary world in stylistic balance-that makes you realize you never learned to write quite right.

The preceding paragraph is underlined in green, and so am I. When I walk around, a squiggly green line follows, constantly pointing out the grammatical error that is my life.

Yes, the surface is fine. Calm, collected... Calculated, too? All of the above.

Order exists there, but chaos permeates from beneath, just as sweat flows through pores.

Too vague? If I wanted to be implicit I would say, "read between the squiggly lines and tell me what's missing." If I wanted to be explicit I might say, "read between the squiggly lines and notice that there are only my thoughts, all alone. Get it, I'm lonely." If I wanted to be figurative, I wouldn't say anything, I would write (oh, and it would probably be something laced with disgusting hubris).

Though I may have an ego about writing, I have no pride in my squiggly green follower, underlying everything I do.

But what is so unorganized about my organism that I can float around, playing the role of social butterfly, yet remain so utterly isolated? Why can't people see this? Why don't I fall for people?

Why do I keep it all in?

And, why am I so happy, regardless of it all?

(Would that make me a Prozac user?)

(I'm not)

Note: I sit in a slouch. Next to my couch. Typing face down now, eyes closed, picturing your cute face, presented in something beyond TechniColor by the 130 video monitors of my mind. I can't wait until we meet again, for the first time.

What would you wish for?