The other day, I was riding the bus and I had a mini-ephiphany.  I have many mini-ephiphanies on the bus – I get motion sickness when I read, so I’m left with my own thoughts (and my iPod).  I was thinking about what I was going to write for the blog (yesterday’s post on the confusion of modern life), and then I started thinking about the things that I write about in general:  my ten-cent philosophies and psychoanalyses, what happened to me in class, the weirdness on the city bus.  I realized these were all the sorts of things that I used to share with the Ex during our nightly phone calls.  It turns out that you, dear blog readers (or maybe just the blog itself), have become my new boyfriend.  Which is sort of sad, but since I am in no condition to try to find someone else (since the idea a) feels like cheating and b) fills me with a sense of dread and/or despair), I suppose it is better than trying to use some poor schmo to make me feel better.  This way is less social, but at least it’s honest.

So, I guess what I’m asking is even if I don’t wear slutty clothes or laugh at your jokes, and even if I don’t put out (except lexically), will you, dear reader, be my boyfriend (substitute)?