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Plinth

Plinth. Emotive.

Study. Romantic.

This young one was looking at me when I stepped up to the iceberg lettuce in Superquinn. Super gorgeous, fabulous young bird, skinny and long straight hair. Straight out of a fantasy, she was. She looked at me again, too, as I looked back up toward her. See it. Jesus.

What was I supposed to do? Speak with her. She was about 19 years old, I bet, or 20. She really did seem to like me. So that fact that I did nothing yes that obsturbs me. Bothers me. Disturbs me. Disobeys the initial instinct. M_ was with me — did social concern override me? Do I feel guilty about this attraction toward the young women? Do I feel — more to the point — self-conscious about it, to the point that I would demure, decline myself the chance to take a chance, the opportunity to chance the arm,* to risk it for a biscuit?

Smothering questions, these are, and ones that I'd rather not have to subject myself to. Questions to which I would rather not have to object myself. Subject myself. It's better to regret something you have done....

— 13 May 2006

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