Wednesday, Jul. 24, 2002 / 3:05 a.m.

~I Could Tell You~

It's just after 3:00 in the morning. I feel as though I've been up for days. I feel as though I've not eaten in days. I feel very sad. I shouldn't.

We met Moby. I put my arm around him for a photo. It took Dawn forever to trip the shutter. I was telling her to hurry, then I said, "Actually, take your time....", and I turned to him, looked at him, and came incredibly close to kissing him on the cheek. I can't wait to see that photo.

The show was amazing. Dirty Vegas was excellent, they of the Mitsubishi commercial song fame ("Days Go By"?). Stephanie and I shook the lead singer's hand outside, and I told him I am definitely buying their new album. I loved them, really.

Azure Ray played first. They're local, how strange is that? What a night. What a night. It was not really like anything I can come close to describing. Why do I sit here trying?

How can I describe hanging out in the parking lot for an hour or two after meeting him, talking, waiting, while not waiting, not wanting to leave, and Moby walking up to us to chat? How do I tell anyone exactly how it went? Would you even believe me?

Would you believe I gave him what I planned to give him? And I tried to tell him what it was, what it means to me, and I wonder if he kept it. Could I tell you that I wrote to him at his email address, the one that leaked out not long ago? I did. And I have no regrets.

I didn't say all I wanted to, I didn't ask all I wanted to, I wasn't courageous and bold, I wasn't brazen, I was shy and nervous, but he was calm and centered, and yet shy as well. I could tell you everything, every detail, from the storm that hit before I left my apartment, to the traffic on the highway, the traffic jam that had me in first gear for an hour. I could tell you how angry I was, how I almost started to cry, how I pictured me not making it at all.

I could.

Because I don't think I'll forget any of it. Not even inviting Moby to go swimming, or whatever, back at Stephanie and Dawn's hotel. He said they had to hit the road. Of course. Does he know he could've gotten laid?

Hah!

Gladys is sitting on the rug staring at me. I suppose I came home and got online first thing, didn't I? I suppose I couldn't wait to write to Moby at that email address, to see if it's a valid address still, to come up with the perfect subject header so he'll read it, if he still accesses the account. If.

I could go on and on, but I want to bottle it up, I want to put it all someplace special and not tell anyone anymore than I've said right here. I don't want you to know exactly what I said, or what he said, or what songs he played. I don't even want to tell you that he stood on his head on stage. That he's a total nut. And that I feel I'm sickeningly in love with him. That it's nothing but reinforced now, and he is totally unattainable. He is the ultimate in unattainable. How horrible is that? How awful does that feel?

I could tell you, but I won't.

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