I can feel the bumps on the platform because the soles of my shoes have grown so thin. And what, I paid a pretty penny for these shoes. But I love these shoes, even if they're low and make some of my jeans drag the ground a little bit, but only just a little bit because I hate it when people drag their jean hems until they're all dirty and torn. Like most of the people my age standing there with me, in the dim light, wind blowing, newspapers dancing, trains screeching until they stop right in front of me, well, not exactly right in front of me because I can never figure out where the door will stop, either in front of me or to the left of me by three feet, but it's usually to the right of me by something like ten inches. So I'm pretty good. Except that people always push and shove, and since I'm a nice guy I don't and I'm always left behind. I've waited for the next train before. It's not that bad, because it's always the same thing, sitting in that seat and getting back up. Never walking on the escalator, mind you, only on the return trip. Usually the same thoughts, too. Bumping into probably the same people. Never taking notice because my mind's always thinking about things like how I would never date someone who was bisexual, for fear that they would cheat on me with someone of the opposite sex, or if the scaffolding above me would collapse just as I was walking above the manhole cover. Or what if it collapsed just as I finished walking under it? That would be good, wouldn't it? I avoid the puddle because I'm wearing the low shoes and wonder if I should invest in a pair of rainboots. Then when I clear my head more thoughts creep in and I realize maybe I should have done some things differently, maybe done this that way, done that this way, but doesn't everyone think that? We're never really satisfied, are we? And the ones who claim they are seem to be lying. At least, for me thinking that way makes me feel better. Because we all have a pretty equal chance of getting struck by that car, or even lightning. Or getting crushed under that scaffolding, come to think of it. I wonder how many steps are taken in a day, and how many more will be taken in the future.

Did you miss me? Probably not. I only used you hardcore back in high school and probably the first year of college, when I was skipping class and hibernating in my room, my computer my only friend. That includes you, Xanga. Anyway, I've been thinking about writing letters to people. You know, since snail mail seems like it's a dying phenomenon. The USPS is even thinking of delivering mail only five days a week. They've already gotten rid of some of the unused blue mailboxes around here, the ones with less than 25 pieces of mail per day. Eek! So maybe I can bring writing back. There's something about a handwritten letter that an email can't capture, no matter how many emoticons you use. So, my dear Xanga readers...if you feel comfortable with sending me your address via a Xanga message (ugh, it makes me shudder just to say that...), I can try to send you a letter with MY OWN handwriting! And by "try" I mean I will, because I have nothing better to do these days. Go on, you know you want a letter! And it won't just be a "Hi!" letter. Most of you I "know" pretty well because, well, Xanga is Xanga. There's some people on here that I've "known" for quite a while, at least in the cyber sense...and perhaps there are some things I'd like to tell YOU through a letter! Dirty pics optional.

I guess this means I'll have to actually start checking my Xanga messages...all I get through there are offers for Xanga surveys for free credits. Or...if you're on Facebook you can message me there. Heehee. Don't worry, I won't do anything weird with your address.