meeting me

"me on stage" - a title.

The following, a paragraph:
"I don't know what I would do," she replied, when I asked her how she'd react to meeting a younger version of herself. "Fall hopelessly and violently in love with her, I guess."

The self-reflexive precociousness of the prose grows large; I can see the serif font on fibrous, yellowed pages -- a chapter ending of a paperback novella written for the teenage market. I see it on the page so clearly. Never the right story, but one that "made do." It's like how I never called Roland back after sleeping with him for two weeks because I got a new job doing data entry and he commented quizzically: "You mean, you like data entry?" Fool. I like the feeling that I'm getting by. The idea of success gives me the emotional shits and inspirational hemmorhoids (just a little something obstructing delivery).

Yet again, the spectre of my middling, make-do, improvised future! Glorious unplanning!

"I haven't met who I am going to have been, but I have been the met."

That means, there were others who came to me laid claim to me saying: I was once what you are and in that I was just as alone and that means we should be together; but then I says, that means you would have been us and been alone and I would be us and not be alone and you are cheating me of my destiny to be just like this and learn just like this and perhaps one day meet us again and have little us say, oh no, i have evolved. oh, spot! I'd like to damn it! But these are the gripes of lesser woman than that lady!

The gentleman in the train has short cuffed trousers and elegant expensive shoes. That is correct!

The strange man in the train wears flannel as a jacket, too much gel combed through his hair, moosen ear muffs, khaki pants that are a correctly short cuffed length, and NO SHOES. LOAFERS. That is not quite correct!