I started the second draft of my novel today. My sister and I both enjoy writing, and she's working on her second manuscript, so we made a pact to prod one another. I keep her most recent prod in my email inbox. It stares at me accusingly every time I use the internet. (Gmail is my homepage. And my homeboy.) I put down three hundred words and a few more while I waited for my rice to finish. So, page one or so. A good start. My goal is to have the second draft (the draft I'm willing to show people) finished by my birthday, in December. Can do.

Sometimes you meet somebody and there are butterflies. Butterflies made of lightning. On meth.

The last time I met such a butterfly maker was before I left for Japan. The week before, actually. It was the weirdest thing. By objective standards is was an "eh" grade date, just fast food and walking and talking, but there were butterflies and I still don't understand why. He wasn't even legally an adult yet, which I'm going to count as not scuzzy on my part because I was only twenty-two and see above about fast food-walking-talking.

He wants to be a dentist. I don't know what my butterflies are thinking.

He's on my mind because we keep in touch, and we Skyped last week. There were butterflies again. They got me thinking about life and what's maybe next and what it will be like to not be single, to make job and life decisions while not being single, about being married, having kids. Probably not with him (because persistent butterflies aren't enough . . . right?), but with someone, someday. Maybe in the next few years. Someone will give me butterflies who doesn't want to be a dentist and who is maybe finished with school already.

I was telling my mom about this because yes, I tell my mom and my sister about my crushes, and she mentioned the recent Washington state gay marriage decision. She said the gay guys who were witnessing it were pictured with some adorable children. She seemed happy for them. I'm looking forward to sharing my excellent family.

Tomorrow is my level test for kendo. I'm anxious almost to the point of hyperventilation. When it comes to words I'm moderately talented and when it comes to sports I'm not talented at all. Everyone will be watching. If I perform like I did at the dry run this evening, I'll make a lot of mistakes.

But it's ok. It's a game. It's a sport. It's for fun and exercise and ok, also bragging rights because kendo is impressive. It's okay to make mistakes. (But that doesn't mean I like it.)

And if you were here, after telling you all this, I'd sniffle and rock back and forth like a slightly crazy person because I think it's time to just be with what I'm feeling, now that I've expressed it.

I feel like talking but there's no one here. I've been washing my dishes every night for the past couple of weeks because I read somewhere that the way to become a person who keeps a tidy apartment is to keep a tidy apartment. It's a steady clean clear area in my cluttered house.

I taught mentally challenged third graders about "I want" and "I want to" this morning. We played a white elephant type game and then go fish, and then a fill in the blanks thing plus a review about telling time. It went smoother than I expected. The special first graders were in a bad mood when I taught them last Tuesday, and then their abilities are different and I didn't put as much effort into that lesson, so what can I expect.

You're not here, so I'm talking to myself.

Last week I went to the Mormon chapel, did I mention that? I want to see if I can make it mine, somehow, instead of Mormonism being an accident of birth. Y'know. Like mental retardation, or a crooked finger. I want to demote it from worldview to heritage experience. If I completely stop engaging with it, it'll always be ingrained in me. That's probably unhealthy.

It's been a busy week. I want to go grocery shopping, but it's so cold, and I really enjoy laying in bed.

The elders are not lookers, but they're white and male and American and around my age so I feel myself drawn to them. I think I have to be careful about that. They're so like me, but also so very very not. I have to keep reminding myself—Matthew, these boys do not care about you. They're here to proselyte for a church in which you were burned for years. They may want what's best for you, but their idea of what that is is very different from yours. So be careful.

Anyway. If you were here tonight, I dunno. I might ask to cuddle and then fall asleep on you. I'm feeling young and vulnerable. I'm tired.