It's the aim of existense, to offer resistance, to the flow of time

I got a little misty during the ring ceremony that preceded the Celtics game tonight. You may think I'm a Nancy, but when I saw Paul Pierce weeping openly as they handed out the rings, I couldn't help but get a little choked up. If it's a criminal act to be in tune with your emotions, than lock me the fuck up. Now, would Bogart or Mifune approve of my actions? Of course not ---I'd be less than human to them --- but they'd have to admit my display of emotion denotes sophistication and a quiet, abiding strength. And, anyway, they're dead so who cares what they think?
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Rich has been avoiding me again. I don't think I'm being paranoid, but I'll let you be the judge. Last night I came downstairs and headed to the kitchen. I could hear Rich in there and, based on his frequent bouts of avoidance, I didn't expect I'd run into him. What I expected, and what happened, was him making a hasty retreat to his bedroom which is just off the kitchen. I only managed to catch a glimpse of him as he bolted into his room.

In the kitchen, I saw that he was boiling something on the stove. If he doesn't want what he's cooking to burn, he better get over what's making him hide from me because I've got some dishes to do and probably won't be through anytime soon, I thought. So I did my dishes, wondering all the while what he'd do.

After a few minutes went by, I felt bad --- I don't know exactly why he behaves this way, but I believe it has more to do with a general social anxiety than it does with me personally. So why play this game with him? I decided to throw out the trash, providing him a window of opportunity to gather his food in relative peace.

Outside, I saw through the window that Rich was in the kitchen, preparing his meal like a line cook on a hopping Saturday night. I confess to laughing at his expense, but just because I felt bad about his predicament didn't mean what I was watching wasn't funny. To give him a little extra time, I hung out in the driveway for a couple of minutes after the trash was thrown out. When I made it back inside, I heard the sound of his door closing. I imagined him on the other side of it, sliding to the floor in sweaty relief.

Another close call tonight. I don't think he heard me come down the stairs this time, because he really had to scramble to get into his room ( it's occurred to me that these encounters with Rich are not unlike ones I've had with squirrels and other skittish members of the animal kingdom). I was about five feet away from him as he faded into his room. I was so close! I felt like Roger Patterson.

Like last night, I had some dishes to do, but when I saw that in his haste, Rich had left behind his dinner (a Chicago-style pepperoni pizza --yum!), I abandoned the idea. No need to make another night's dinner an adventure, I thought.

After I finish with this, I'm going back down to the kitchen for a drink. I'm thinking I should bring a camera and some plaster in case I need to make casts of his tracks. No one will believe I saw him unless I provide proof.

Back to the Celtics. No tears, I promise.