Fuck the introduction.  Nobody reads that anyways.  Readers leaf through the xxi’s and head straight for the 123’s like the author has nothing to say.

                I guess this is why I’ve chosen to write this “introduction” of sorts on the blank footnote of an aging receipt, which belongs to one Maria Silvana.  (Or as the handwritten name above reads: Asis, M.)  Who this is, I haven’t a clue.  But what I can tell yo is the name of the library branch (Hickory Corner) and date this particular book I’m reading (Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita) was checked out (03/20/07).  Of course there’s still her phone number (which I will not reveal.  Just know that it’s a palindrome.) and an email address.  But I will not call.  I will not write.  Sometimes I think about her, though, this Asis, M.  Why, I’m not quite certain, but at times I’m tempted to grab the phone and punch the numbers one by one and listen to that hiccup! and listless muhhhh of the dial tone.  Waiting for the, “Hello?” in which cased I’ll respond with something spastic like, “Um, uh.”  Then after a few more attempts at establishing communication, my infatuation will hang up the phone with a heartbreaking finality.  There’s the click on her end chick only resonates through mine.  And as I fight the urge to call, I think, I have never heard my own phone hang up…

                Some say I have difficulty keeping focused.  (At least this is what I’ve been told by multiple members of the opposite sex.)  They claim I have quote, unquote trust issues, which keep me guarded and distant.  And because of this character flaw I am unable to delve into anything remotely emotional.  Yes, for this reason I am alone, sitting on a bus scribbling these thoughts onto an ancient proof of purchase I’ve decided to keep as a bookmark.

                And a voice asks, “What are you writing?”