Greetings and obfuscations, friends! A thousand apologies for seemingly dropping off the face of the earth for a while, but I have been rather busy with work and other plot developments in this grand theatre we call Life. (Yes, you heard me correctly: work! Read on, friend, read on.) Allow me to catch you up ever so slightly, as it has once again been over a month since last I graced you with my presence. (I have this bad habit of disappearing for long periods, coming out of nowhere with a prolix post that begins with apologies for not posting in so long, then once again slipping into the shadows.)

So, to recapitulate the last month or so: on 9 July 2002, a scant three days from my last post, I got my first job after working steadily at finding work for two or three weeks straight. The day before, I applied at a restaurant called Newport Rib Company, but because they had just recently hired two people, chances were slim to none that I would find a position there. But the manager, Jerry, suggested that I try riding down to the Newport Pier (about a half-hour as the bicycle rides) and checking out a little foodplace he owns, namely, Pipeline, where he might just be able to accomodate me.

Thus, on the next morning, after discovering that my interview at The Gap was postponed until the end of the week, and conducting a rather successful (I thought so, anyway) interview at a nearby Staples, I made my way to the beach. I discovered that this Pipeline is about twenty feet from the beach, a selling point from the beginning. I go in, get Jerry's attention, answer some questions (one of them, after telling him that not only did I have no experience in food service, but no work experience whatsoever, being "Then why should I hire you, Eric?"), and biff! I have a job. I start learning the ropes that day, donning the official Pipeline t-shirt that marks an adolescent as being a worker (a rather informal uniform, really).

I've been working there for about a month now, and can honestly say that it has been one of my most satisfying experiences. The job, which entails taking people's orders, serving them food, figuring out the change in my head (my math skills have bettered extraordinarily, although it is not extremely difficult, given that every item either ends in .00, .25, .50, or .75 [all prices include tax]), cleaning during slow times, and restocking items, has improved my in-head addition and multiplication, my pride in work (ever seen anything more heartbreaking than a little kid who gets a crappy sundae?), my people skills, and my general work ethic. (Who would've thunk that getting a job would affect so many facets of my life?)

I've become something of a workaholic, as a matter of fact (an oddity, given my personality, as those who know me can attest), making sure that I work no less than six days a week, six to eight hours a day. I take people's shifts to fill up my schedule, if needs be, and therefore put in over eighty-six hours for my last two-week paycheck. Aside from the extra money I get for so many hours, however, I genuinely find my job enjoyable! My coworkers are friendly, fun, and abso-bloody-lutely beautiful (that last one applies to only the girls; the clientele are generally amiable and often happen to be stunning bikini-clad young women (working twenty feet from the beach definitely has perks; again, ladies, I apologise for seeming insensitive, but I, too, have hormonal urges); the food is great (and free, so long as the manager isn't around); and, although the job only pays minimum wage, the tips are rather good (three to four dollars a day on average through a community tip jar). What's not to love? (Mopping the place, actually, but I only have to do that when I close.)

As to the title of this entry, which has, up to this point, had nothing to do with the content, allow me to further explain the situation. About a week or two ago, I was introduced to a new worker, Genevieve (once again, the name has been changed for privacy's sake), who had begun just the day before. From the moment I met her, I knew that she was something special. After working alongside Genevieve, my first instincts were gloriously confirmed: here is a beautiful (long, lustrous blonde hair, blue eyes like deep pools in which I could easily lose myself, and a natural radiance that requires no make-up to be enhanced), intelligent (she loves to read [thank the gods!], is giving thought to joining the Mock Trial program at her school, and would doubtless be a scintillating conversationalist under other conditions than catching a few words in between customers), engaging young woman who is significantly more approachable than any other girl I have met at Pipeline.

Alas! if only I could be more sure of how she feels about me. My feelings for her, although quickly formed, are surely true. Her allure transcends the superficial and merely physical: although I do believe she is extremely attractive, it is for her mind that I treasure her; we seem to have much in common (how often do you find someone else who loves office supply stores?), and I truly feel that something could blossom between us, given some time. (Unfortunately, time is against me: I am only in Costa Mesa until September 15, a little more than a month from now) However, as stated above, I am still not certain how Genevieve thinks of me. When our eyes meet, even if we aren't speaking, her eyes seem to twinkle and give me a knowing look. (Although at this point I am so desperate to find some sign that a girl likes me that anything appears to be significant.) I do favors for her occasionally, and she seems genuinely appreciative of my help. Some things seem to show that she might be, even remotely, interested in me.

Yet—curse my quiet and reserved nature!—I cannot help but feel overshadowed by the other fellows at work, who all seem to be far more physical and playful with all of the girls, Genevieve included. They simply seem to be more fun than I am, more entertaining. If they were all horribly shallow, stupid blokes who relied on their buffoonery to attract the opposite sex, it would be slightly reassuring, but—blast it all!—this is not the case. Almost every guy at work is intelligent, handsome, caring, and just happens to be fun, too. I find myself being the Might-As-Well-Be-Gay Guy: sensitive, a great listener (read: not exactly a chick magnet), and without the benefit of being amazingly handsome (which seems to be an advantage of many homosexuals).

So, here I am, staying true to myself by remaining the quiet-but-caring type, and hoping against hope that Genevieve can appreciate the fact that I am interested in finding out about her life, her interests, her hopes, dreams, and fears. In short, that I truly care for, and about, her. If she can only realise that, perhaps all is not lost.

If ever I work up enough courage to ask her out for a bite to eat, I intend to find a local restaurant that is either solely vegetarian or offers a variety of meatless meals (she is vegetarian for moral reasons, which I understand completely, having read about the atrocious way food animals are treated). Bold, to be sure, but isn't a bit of boldness required to get anywhere?

On a rather personal note, I have been dreaming quite a lot recently of finding someone who cares for me the way I care for them, of having a happy life with someone who likes, or even loves, me for who I am, who accepts me as I am and not as I might disguise myself for the world's benefit. This recurrent theme merely depresses me, for although I might have found the elusive True Love in my dreams, the moment I wake up and realise that it was merely my lonely subconscious wishing for what it may never have, the crushing truth of Reality strikes and bruises my psyche once again, delivering a mighty blow to whatever confidence and well-being I might have been able to scrounge from the dregs of existence. (A tad dramatic, but I have always had a tendency to exaggerate.)

Enough about the bittersweet caprices of Romance; on to other aspects of life. I have registered for my first quarter at the California Polytechnic University of Pomona (known simply as Cal Poly in my corner of the universe), and am taking three classes, twelve units. (It may not seem like much, 'tis true, but the professor to whom I spoke suggested to take only three classes in the beginning so as not to overwhelm myself in the already difficult transition from high school to college.) My classes are thus: Freshman English II (getting 5's on both of my English AP tests allowed me to skip a level) and French I on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; and a class called Advocacy and Argument, apparently a required course for English majors, which sounds an awful lot like Debate (having been the captain and coach of the Debate Team, I should take to it like a fish to water [clichÈriffic!]), on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Because I get out of class by noon every day, I intend to work part-time somewhere near home, although I shall miss Pipeline.

I have bought more CDs, invariably; I shan't even attempt to list them all anymore. Perhaps one of these days I'll share the titles in my collection, but not tonight, when I really should be getting to sleep. (I want to go to Borders for a bit before work tomorrow, so I need to wake up earlier than usual.)

Instead of using the Lord's name in vain (I have picked up a bad habit of saying "Jesus God!" when shocked or simply exclaiming disbelief), I have decided to use other, more interesting euphemisms and alternatives:

Great Caesar's ghost! (my personal favorite)
Ye gods!
By Jove!
My word!
Heavens to Mergatroy!
Gee golly willickers!

And other such fun sayings. Nothing else significant, really. Just finished a novel entitled The Bonfire of the Vanities, by Tom Wolfe, and am now beginning A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving, as well as the first book in L. Ron Hubbard's "Mission Earth" series, The Invaders Plan [sic].

Tomorrow I see Genevieve—be still my beating heart!

[Exit Orpheum.]

p.s. I don't really feel like proofreading this tonight, so if there are any mistakes in my spelling, grammar, punctuation, or syntax, you will simply have to suffer with them until I get a chance to pore over this entry.