august 6, 2001. "I was talking to this nun...no, wait...I wasn't talking to her, I heard her on the radio..." - the boy tries to name-drop Yesterday the Boy & I had lunch at a grill on Argyle Street while we waited for the comic book store to open. (Yes, we're geeks. At least we married each other and saved y'all from the taint of our comic book loserdom.) As we were waiting for our food, we passed the time by drawing with crayons on the butcher paper that covered the table. Neither of us can really draw, but I enjoyed messing about with the materials while the Boy lamented his lack of composition skills. "It's not that," I said. "You draw well enough. You just don't produce what you think is a properly artistic drawing. What you're talking about is specific skill, not ability." As I said this, I was covering my portion of the table with little sketches. After I drew Nic's new house, I tried my best to draw the Boy in blue crayon. "It doesn't really look like you," I said when it was done. "But he's still a good looking guy. I could definitely go out with him." We decided that he was Evil Boy, and he was from an alternate dimension à la Southpark. "Evil Boy would have a high paying job with lots of artistic accomplishments on the side. Evil Boy can draw," said the Boy with a sigh. We went on in this vein until we both felt uncomfortably close to trashing the real Boy. There was a short silence. "Ok. Now let's turn the tables & do me," I said brightly, trying to make him feel better. "Evil Amoret eats sensible meals and exercises regularly." "Evil Amoret teaches her own Jazzercise class," he chimed in. "Evil Amoret does all the housework." I stuck out my tongue. "No, Evil Amoret is patient and empowers her Boy to do housework without nagging him. Evil Amoret never gets cranky when her Boy leaves empty beer bottles all over the house." He grinned. "Evil Amoret just wrapped up a 3-day celebration known as Belphoebe-fest, where people gathered from all points of the earth to discuss her wonderful online journal..." He stopped when he saw that my eyes were filling with tears. "Too far?" He said gently. "Too far," I whispered. "Screw you, Cartman! We like Evil Cartman better!" Today I listened to the building staff tear down my porch steps as I extensively revised the cast page. This is all I have to show for today... this time last year: old loves & dying without the fun of skipping out on the paperwork