knee socks slipping down i am running up the steps to the library and a man passes me and says "look at your shoes! you're crazy." there is a lady talking to herself in the elevator special secret hand signals and she is standing too close to me. children singing in the hall. lovely. running back to work because the max is late there are little bits of snow falling on my hair and jacket and i want to stick my tongue out like snoopy.

the snow claw i built is still there in the driveway, stubborn and not melting. i made it for the cat. i want to sew him a cape and little boots. his paws will be cold.

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this is dear diary like with elbow curled over page so noone can see, corner of page folded down when finished writing because it's secret.

dear diary, hopeless when it comes to boys and dates, forgotten things, and all the signals you're supposed to catch but don't. dear diary maybe it's sort of charming and maybe i catch myself thinking about glasses or dorkiness that is in a way endearing but i think it's only the idea of it, rather than the real of it.

dear diary, i have to be firm and make embarrassing explanations. i want to write it all down on lined paper with special boxes to check, if ----> then, no----> yes. flowcharts that explain my misunderstanding. arrows that point to let's shake hands but you're still rather cute. is that ok?