May 20th, 2002 - 9:27 p.m.

One can liken this to tickling oneself.

I very much liked my fake letter to an imaginary boy (yesterday�s entry). Almost makes me wish that the boy existed just so that we could become lovers, he could hurt me cruelly, and I may break up with him.

Hand deliver the letter, messily written on white unlined paper, wrapped in the standard style in elaborate Japanese paper featuring either cranes, or cherry blossoms, or fancy umbrellas, or chrysanthemums. I think an umbrella design would be best. That whole archetypal �rainy day� imagery. Ask if he likes the Japanese paper I chose. Watch his smile of appreciation slowly turn into a look of abject loss. The last time the fingertips touch. The final kiss: salty from tears that have drained from the eyes, slid down the cheek, and fell into the cleavage between the lips.

But unfortunately, boys are often much too daft to see imagery when I hit them across the head with it. Or they become paranoid, and try to see imagery with everything. (�Oh! She picked up the water glass with her LEFT hand and she is right handed. Oh dear. Water is a symbol of purity.... The left hand is considered profane in most cultures. Is she trying to say that she seems pure, but is in fact, not? Is she suggesting that what was once pure (i.e. our relationship) is now profane? What does this mean?�)

(Chuckling.) Ahem, I ought to stop laughing at my own jokes. But then, no one else finds this humorous at all but me.

N.

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