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.

After boxing this evening I ran into the Mormon missionaries. This was the third time since coming to Japan and the first of those three times when I wasn't running to catch a train. They were in my train station's bakery, which was where I wanted to buy dinner. (Curry rolls.)

Long story short: When they gave me a little map to the church I felt wanted by a decent looking American man within a couple of years of my age, which was strange and wonderful and then depressing. I miss tall, clean-cut white boys. Missionaries are even better because they come in pairs and without women. No offense, women. Unfortunately, they don't want me to come to their church because they like me; they want me to come because they believe a theology that I don't.

Gosh I felt sad after that. Not too sad—boxing endorphins—but sad. Probably I'll never stop being sad, at least a little, not about these particular men but about the Mormon life I didn't lead. Like the best storybooks, that Mormon life was so beautiful that it hurts that I can't believe it's true.

I'm pretty sure I'll visit the church sometime soon, maybe even this weekend. I'm such a sucker.


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There were cutie-patootie eight year olds at the boxing gym today. They asked me my name, and where I was from, and how old I was. One kept going "Pchiew!" and fake punching toward me. One kept showing off on the climbing rope, calling me over to make sure I was watching.