I'm back.

First, I need to write a confidential message to a diarylander - a fellow NYCer - that I e-mailed about her boy situation. I don't even know if you are reading this, but if you are, I hope you don't think I was being mean. I rarely e- diarylanders, but I've been reading you for months, and your last entry struck a chord for some reason - so I threw my 2 cents in. I hope you weren't offended. I forget that you people don't know me, and do not read my words as I speak them. I assume you all know my unique style. I am wrong.

So I hope I haven't put you off?

*~*

Back to me. I've been every busy. I've been doing work things until late every night this week, but I know my friends will flog me if I complain, as my work involves managing supermodels, rockstars and celebrities. And I know that my work could be a lot less exciting. So no complaints.

Wish I could give you all the down and dirty, but my job is confidential, so here are the vague highlights:

Tuesday involved a me getting a chunk taken out of my ass by an angry supermodel. I know what you all are thinking: she must have been hungry. Perhaps. In retrospect, I suppose I shouldn't have laughed in her face - but honestly, she was angry about something so trivial that all I could think was "honey - no one's life is on the line here (this is isn't brain surgery) so if that's your greatest concern, well, HAHA." Actually, I snorted in her face. I just couldn't help it.

Then I smoothed things over. She apologized later. We're cool now.

I met one of my my favorite solo artists. I told her that her CD is a problem for me - I can't stop playing it. She told me that was sweet and gave me a kiss on the cheek. We love her now.

That reaction is a far cry from that Biatch (say with the Snoop Doggy Dog pronunciation) Macy Gray, whom I ran into on Friday. What a bitch. I said hi to her, and reminded her that we met at an industry party, so she didn't think I was just some shmuck off the street, and then told her how great her album was. Hooker barely looked at me, but rather over my shoulder at her security guard AS IF I should be removed from the deli where we were. F Macy Gray, that crack-addled-no-talent-scrub. I'm done with her.

I've been doing well at work, so I guess that's good. And the hard part is over for a little while.

But today. I met this guy. And I am connie.

[ASIDE: You don't know what connie means? Connie, is a term to describe someone who has a big crush. Actually, obsessed. It derives from the movie "Three of Hearts" where Kelly Lynch (Connie) is so obsessed over the break up with her lesbian lover Sherilyn Fenn, that she pays Bill Baldwin (a gigalo) to date Sherilyn, make her fall in love with him and then break her heart. Objective being that Sherilyn goes back to Connie, brokenhearted, and realizing that she loves Connie. Readers, we've all been Connie. We've all plotted how to get that hottie to love us, or how to get that heartbreaker back in our arms. You can admit it here on diaryland (tell me in my GUESTBOOK). Don't be afraid. Gay or straight, you've done that drive-by past a Connie's house to see if they're home; hoping to catch a glimpse of that sexy someone. You've dialed that number to hear their voice when they pick up. You've showed up at a party you knew they'd be at; you've arranged that "coincidental" run-in. Oh yes, friends, we've all been connie. Sometimes we connie a car - oh, that new gleaming SUV...that taut leather and that badass mobile video unit that you imagine loading with some nasty porn and getting a piece with your flava of the week in the backseat while D'Angelo is booming through your state of the art system (not me silly, YOU,think this)...yes, you COVET it. You have a picture of that car in your room or in your office and you drive by the car lot and your eyes glaze over while you dream of what you could do with that car...how you would look in that car...how your crush would sweat you in that car. Well that's connie. Welcome to my world.]

So I met this guy today. I find myself utterly enamored. It's a constant check to make sure I am not staring, but when I can safely steal a glance, his features are like an all you can eat buffet and really I just don't know where to start. I find myself speaking to him, and I am just staring at his beautiful, perfect mouth. I start to feel pressured to say something funny and to make him laugh, to see his smile. So I can know. I will know what it feels like to bask in the sunlight of his attention.

I study his profile, from a distance away. I marvel at the perfect, aqualine line of his perfect nose. His perfect profile. I squint to study his stunning hands, his perfect, graceful fingers. All this, and I try to breathe.

A man. Not a guy. A man.

But not too manly. Not like a grown up and stuff.

Just right.

All this, and I will probably never see him again.

All this, and he would never know me from a hole in the wall.

I'm just another dumb girl.

A dumb girl, who would trade her prized backstage passes, for a conversation with him.

The perfect man, without a clue.

I may be a good time. But I sure as hell am hopeless.

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