It was in my purse, and then I when I put my purse down, I heard the phone fly out in to the back seat. But then, when I went to retrieve it, it was no where to be found -- not under my seat, not in the shoebox, not in the bag in which the shoebox was, not in the pants tangled up back there (a couple pairs of pants I've been meaning to return, so relax, man), not on the seat, nothing. Still haven't found it, and probably because if I did, I would want to call
the one guy and tell him stuff.
I would want to tell him that it wasn't the yelling tone his e-mail had the other day that freaked me out -- if we'd had that same conversation over the phone, I'd have never thought he was yelling at me, and don't I always tell him to write like he talks, anyway? -- but that he did it at all, and without provocation, because it felt distant, like he was trying to cut away another already tenous chord. I would want to tell him that I miss talking to him and that I wish he didn't feel all weirded out by my feelings. And that really, who the hell am I to judge any "relationship" he thinks he's got going? I mean, Christ, it's not like I don't know what "fucked up" is; at this point? I got it, thanks. Preaching to the choir. Whatever. I'm just here in my little corner living, loving, waiting for the time that maybe I won't be just a monthly stop anymore, like a period or an already-read magazine or whatever. Don't mind me. I wouldn't, however, have told him I love him.
Any of that would've made me
look feel like a complete asshole -- you know, the whole "I really hate dealing with emotions, especially my own" thing I have. But I still want to know where my phone went.
Oh, whatEVER. 
