DEDICATIONS.

This is my romantic fantasy:

There you are, you're sitting at a computer monitor. You're bored, you'd like to be anywhere but there at that work cubicle, with anyone other than alone; you grow sentimental for something you cannot put your finger on. Maybe you think of me, maybe you hanker for the old days, for a glimpse of my face again, for a bit of voice. There they are: all of my words lined up neatly, my brain's thoughts as linear as they'll ever get. You are my audience, I write for you and you alone. I had you in mind as I wrote this, just as I always do. Afterall, who else understood me? Who else was so congratulatory? You are my biggest fan.

I like to think that every time you read me, listen to me, come back for another taste of what my mental clock is ticking out today, you say to yourself, Damn, my girl's done it again. My Girl, for I want there to be ownership. No such cheesiness as sunshine on a cloudy day, but I want the possessive pride of a child who loves what they love because it is their's, with the secret notion that its better than everyone else's. I want to blow you away, continually. I want to delight you. I want you to be the one, decades from now, that all the books were dedicated to: "To ______, as always." For won't it be you all those years who'll sit with me, feed me the cups of tea that grow cold, pat my hand in hopefulness when the listlessness sets in, hand me praises, always constant, always sincere.

Narcissistic, to be sure. But I want you to come back, and back again. Get more out of me, take your fill. I will always have more to give. The greatest compliment is knowing that you come back, take a moment from your political blogs, your online solitaire, your accidental porn surfing, your long list of email recipients, and come find me. For who am I but one in a sea of many, a shrill amongst so many voices clambering to be heard?
But here you are, listening as closely as ever.