Lying upside down on the air mattress, watching the storm outside. Lightning illuminates the sky with blinding intensity, occasionally striking the earth, tracing hot white veins across the dark clouds. Flying ants swarm against the glass of the French doors. The first storm of the summer, a fitting end to this day that saw me curled up in bed, crying at the hopeless state of my future. I was afraid to blow my nose, for fear that the sound of it would alert the house to my tearful state. But now everything is washing away, cleansed with thunder and rain.

We head to Annapolis in our beat up ‘89 Honda Accord. (Mae fy tad yn mynd i'r ysbyty, a mae fy mam a fi yn mynd siopa.) The muffler dropped off last year when I got hit making a left turn without a green arrow, so it roars like the race car in every little boy's dream. Sometimes the kids in the court have my dad turn it on, just to listen to its low rumble. The only downside is that we have to be extra careful around the police. My dad is constantly on the lookout for "the fuzz.-

Community yard sale. It rains, but the kids stay out in the court anyway, guarding their parents' unwanted belongings. Cathy's selling three wooden chairs, an ornamental rug, a purple patchwork pillow with a velvet backing, and all of Michael's old school bags. Sometimes, I can't believe she's only thirty-something. Her skin is tight and wrinkled—undoubtedly a side effect of her chain smoking—making her appear to be in her early forties. Perhaps more unbelievable is the fact that she's only about fifteen years older than me. The age gap between me and full-blown adulthood no longer seems very big.

Had a dream, at the end of which I stumbled into some cloistered Hindu garden, full of luscious fruit trees—trees dripping with red cherries; orange trees. The oranges grew without their skins, and they looked as fragile as paper lanterns or miniature hot air balloons. Bloated. Just ready to be picked. Girls in saris clasped hands and a dark skinned man told me that I wasn't allowed to be there.

Didn't do much today, other than writing. I'm avoiding all obligations, scientific, social, and otherwise.

Illicit conversations with my father about hypergraphia. He says I'm lucky to like writing.

I never know what will appeal to me anymore. Without wearing my contact lenses, I try sketching the withered peony that sits in David's antique green vase (an exercise in perception), and I couldn't have been more bored. But then I sit down at the piano, more for my mother than for myself, and I am amazed by how quickly my long-lost passion for that instrument is rekindled. I warm up with a minuet, and then I move onto Tori Amos's "Cloud on my Tongue"and suddenly I'm dreaming of performing again. Time has lent those old chords new potency.

A tangy dust fills my mouth as Dr. Ra files spaces between my teeth so that they have room to move. She's a beautiful Asian woman with long black hair and kohl-lined eyes, and she strips three file bits on my teeth. "Strong teeth,"her young assistant laughs.

That evening at Uncle Ric's place, quarters in his hand, Walden runs down to the snow ball van to get a treat. Uncle John sets a Tupperware container full of spare ribs on his easel, and barbecues them over coals, the smoke wafting over Walden and me, grey clouds thick with aroma.

My father cuts down the stump of the bush that the community association had us remove last year. The inside of the stump is wavy, its heart rose colored, and it smells like Vicks Vapor Rub. The smell of cedar.

I go to Arundel Mills with Allison and Melanie and we stumble upon the most ridiculously overpriced store. The clothes are all big brand names—Diane Von Furstenburg, Chloe, Juicy Couture—and hideously ugly. There's a dress that looks like melted sherbert, a skirt that could have been made from tin foil, and going at prices of $200 on average.

I pick more black raspberries from the thicket I found at the edge of the elementary school woods. Take them home—just a handful —and eat them on top of blueberry waffles, accompanied by strawberries and covered in maple syrup. This prompts my father to spin tales of country living—picking berries in the morning and having your man go and catch a few fish from the lake, which you can fry, and then you can eat the whole delectable mess for breakfast.

It isn't the berries themselves that excite me so much as discovering them—it's like discovering a hidden treasure.

Saw "The Break Up"with Kit Kat and Aunt Mil. It really struck a chord, although I can't tell whether that's because the movie was well written, or because my experience with relationships has been emotionally similar to it.

I can see why some people choose to remain bachelors (or bachelorettes). Logically, serious relationships aren't worth the trouble. You tie yourself to another person, you compromise your own life to suit theirs, you devote time and emotional energy to them, you surrender your freedom—totally not worth it. Unless you're in love. Unless you are driven by that beautifully irrational force.

My dad and I go to investigate the raspberry bushes. Mama wants one in the backyard, so he'll find the smallest one, dig it up, and transplant it. For some reason I feel like Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, wanting ... the geese that lay chocolate eggs? I have no clue. The berries start as a pale, creamy white, and then they slowly blush, growing rosy and then red, and then they darken, bruising, until they are the characteristic purplish-black-burgundy.

Then I go magnet shopping for my lab, and buy crystal knick-knacks from a flirtatious, overweight salesman.

The ride back to New York is like passing through another dimension. Miserable and life-sucking. Afterwards, it takes a while to get back to reality.

The bus passes through York, PA, with its quaint, historical buildings. And then on to Lancaster. I'm hoping to see some of the Amish, but no such luck. Plenty of cows, though, and horses, and a few goats.

The city skyline comes into view just before the bus descends into the Lincoln Tunnel. I've wanted to live here ever since I was twelve and saw Felicity. But now that I do, the romance is gone.

Sometimes I hate writing negative things when I know that other people might see them. However fleeting they might be, the minute they're on paper, I feel like they're set in stone.

‘Dw i'n ffeindio lluniau o hwy yn ei drÃÆ'´r. Maen nhw yn eistedd yn tafarn yn Cymru, ‘dw i'n meddwl. Mae ei braich yn o gwmpas ei canol. Mae hi'n bert. Mae hi'n deg. Mae e yn briod. ‘Dw i eisiau derbyn hi.

That probably has a dozen mistakes in it, but it's for no one but myself.

I'm hiding from people again. I'm all nerves and trepidation.

Fried mozzarella, feta, roasted feta. A parade of cheeses tours our table at Snack Taverna, apparently the best Manhattan alternative to Astoria's famed Greek restaurants. New York might not be the dream anymore, but when I'm not buried under work or pining for wild, beautiful nature, the reality is all that I could have hoped for. We hit up Chumley's afterwards. It used to be an honest-to-god speakeasy, and their address of 86 Bedford St. spawned the slang "86 that." It's seedy in a good way, with a dog wandering around inside and a door disguised as a book case.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the stairwell with Matt's experiment timer thrown on the ground beside me. The dim light is calming and the shadows are conducive to falling into a trance. Focusing on my breath, the inhaling, the exhaling, I decide that I am ready to let go. Of this desperate quest for love, of my perpetual embarrassment, of my frustration, of ... I don't know what else. The feeling of release won't last long, but for a moment, I am prepared to sever my attachments to reality.

If I want to survive, I have no other choice.

For me, his homecoming is not a joyous one. I am terrified to see him again. When I arrive, everyone is crowded around him, listening to his tales of Puerto Rico, but I slip by as if he hasn't been away, as if nothing of import has happened to him. It isn't even the shiny new ring around his finger that bothers me, but the awkwardness that lies between us. I would settle for friends, but we aren't even that. We are cordial to each other, and every word that we exchange is strained and stretched to its very limits.

I've been a fifth wheel before, but I now realize that it is nothing in comparison to being a third wheel, which is like volunteering to be drawn and quartered. I should have allowed Moonface to abandon me, instead of intruding upon her evening with the Financier. As it was, by some miracle, I managed to become thoroughly absorbed in the dancing and feel-good 80s music of Naked Lunch, to the point where I forgot about them and their couple-y antics, and I forgot about trying to find myself a man, and I somehow managed to have an enjoyable time.

Where the steam pipe touched my arm, the skin wrinkles and puckers like a cellophane rose, before ballooning into a blister—a bloated, dirty tan island in the midst of a pink streak—the kiss of heat. Once the skin finishes expanding, it stops hurting. I caress it with my thumb, fascinated by how smooth it is, by the way the blister resists the pressure I put on it. It reminds me of bubble wrap, but I won't be popping this for fun. Why does the skin blister when it's burned? Why should it react to intense heat this way?

Befriending an Orthodox Jewish boy when you yourself are not Jewish is a bit like befriending a gay man. It's comfortable, because you know there's no prospect of anything happening between the two of you. It's more comfortable than befriending another woman, in fact, because there's none of that same-sex competition.

We go to the Museum of Natural History together—the Financier, Moonface, and Jew-boy, passing the time by taking in the displays of African mammals—so many quadrupeds with spiraling horns. The best part is the planetarium—a sun-filled glass box, encasing a towering model of the solar system.

To be happy for no reason is a rare blessing. I had a moment like that today, sitting at my bench and labeling pale blue Eppendorf tubes with a red pen. Perhaps it was because I knew my day was almost over, but I doubt that that's the explanation. This was purer than that. Perhaps the rhythm of lab work had lulled me into a state of meditative peace. Or perhaps his presence was at work. Whatever the reason, not even my insecurities about people not liking me could ruin it. Yes, in the end, I do like this lab.

Coming home on the subway after nearly twelve hours in lab, it's the first time that I've thought to myself "I don't have time for a boyfriend,"and actually meant it—it didn't feel like an excuse this time. There are so many things to do. The first half of the day is devoted to lab, the second half is devoted to writing, and any leftover time is divided between drawing or languages or reading or friends. My life is full—where would a boyfriend fit? Temporally, I have no room for one, although emotionally, there must be space somewhere.

The tip of my cigarette glows orange like the cone of a miniature volcano. I lean out of my window, and watch as a group of kids scampers about on the roof below me. A woman likes to walk her dog on that roof as well. She'll sit in the corner, and the dog—a little black, pug-like thing—scampers about likes these kids are doing now. Across the shaft, everyone has their blinds down, except for one Asian boy, but he isn't paying attention to me. I wonder if anyone else bothers to look into other people's windows aside from me.

I watch The Sopranos with Alphabet. He describes the phenomenon of airplanes getting refueled in midair as "airplanes mating." He has a confidence that I can't fathom, and a fair share of wisdom to go with it. He's as real as it gets. I'm sure he'll grow up to become someone like Saul. Someone who isn't afraid to poke and prod people—someone who isn't afraid to lie down on the couch in their office and read, and who won't get up just because another person enters. We have a lot in common, but strangely enough, I don't want him.

Insecurity is my addiction. I am brutally aware of the fact that, against my own will, I am intentionally sabotaging this date, and I can do nothing to stop myself. I am terrified of rejection, and so I set myself up for it, hoisting up my own guillotine and tying my own noose. I'm sinking this thing faster than a suicide bomber can crash a plane, and I'm doing it with the same sick, self-pitying pleasure that cutters must get when they sink a razor blade into their skin. An emotional masochist, I would apparently rather sulk than be happy.

Our good-bye was poignant—a kiss on the cheek that I didn't return, and a lingering hug—poignant in the way that seeing a comet might be poignant—poignant, I say, because I felt that I was saying good-bye to every chance that I will ever have at love—poignant because it could have been so much more—poignant because of the warmth of his arms and the heat rising through his shirt—poignant because I barely know him, and I might never see him again. When he left, I closed the door behind him, and the tears came freely.

Alphabet says that I'm thinking about it too much, which is as true as it gets. I was fine last week, but that seems like ages ago now. I invent little quests to make myself feel better. Go to the East side to get The Fray's CD, and when you hear their music, it'll cure your ailments. Rant about it to Nick; get it off your shoulders. Sleep more. Read fan fiction. Read Memoirs of a Geisha. Escape if you must, but don't dwell on this. Meditate. Go jogging. Pound your frustrations into the ground. Remember: no man is irreplaceable.

"Maybe it will develop into something later, but now is not the right time." Thanks, Financier. Who are you, my mother?

It's true, but I hate to hear it, especially from him. I hate to get advice from him, because he already makes me feel stupid. And I hate to have so foolishly trusted him with my feelings, as if he was my friend, and not just Moonface's boyfriend. In the future, I would be wise to remember the difference between the two.

But I'm being unfair. A petulant child, I'm just angry that I didn't get what I want.

I've always wondered how people could let themselves go—eat until they're obese, smoke and drink and sunbathe until their faces are like worn shoe-leather, dress like complete slobs. But now I'm finally starting to realize just how easy it is. So what if my stomach isn't firm, or if I have cellulite on my ass, or if my hair is a mess, or if my eyebrows aren't perfectly plucked, or if half my clothes are a size too large for me? Of course I would like to present myself better, but it's so easy not to care about it.

The park is enchanted this morning. A couple dressed in black walk by with a black hound. Everything else is lush green in the rain, and pools of water stretch across the asphalt paths, reflecting the trees and the sky and rippling with concentric circles.

I visit Donna in Queens. Melodie's house is decorated with Peruvian furniture and green lacquered wall hangings covered in gold Incan designs. We see Superman Returns, and by the end of the movie, I've forgotten all about the Physicist, and am yearning for a much more fantastical romance, for an emotion only found in dreams.

Under the microscope, the syncytia, stained fluorescent green, look like witch-lights—the will o' the wisp—burning beneath murky black marsh-water.

I'm exhausted when I leave work, but I forego a glass of wine and have a raspberry latte instead, and the caffeine does wonders. I somehow manage to meditate, return to my Welsh lessons, and even restart my story about the moon.

I am strangely at peace, although there's no reason for it. It's storming and thundering outside, and grey shadows delineate the creases that form on the soles of my feet when I point them.

My head fills with drawings.

They say that maintaining eye contact while talking about something serious sparks attraction. Or maybe it's just maintaining eye contact while talking about something. In any case, I felt it last night, when Alphabet invited me to go see the fireworks with him. I held his gaze for a moment longer than I normally would have, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Usually when I maintain eye contact, I feel hypnotized—I can't hear what the person is saying, nor can I even really see them. But as I looked into his huge brown eyes, I felt something magnetic, something drawing me in.