her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you.

I know you don't read this.

There are actually two people to whom this simple thought is addressed, but for very different reasons.

The first person could read this if she so chose, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't. I want her to. Most people who know me are well aware of the fact that my thoughts are much more organized, coherent, and complete when written, rather than spoken. I guess this makes it somewhat ironic, then, that I feel I'm doing well in my auditions for the Improv group. Not phenomenal, but well.

If you read this, you know who you are.

I'm not even going to be symbolic about it anymore. I want to go out with you. I've liked you, from a "distance" for a decent amount of time now, but I'm naive, new. I don't do the whole 'asking out' thing very well. You told me last time that you had work to do after Mass, and I, being Mr. Interpreter that I am, can't tell for the life of me if you were being literal, that day, or whether you meant you weren't interested.

Consider me as a fourth-grader; everything relating to this topic needs to be broken down into its simplest elements. I can rattle off jargon or slang with the rest of them, and I can define pretty well, but that doesn't mean I understand. Make me understand. You missed Mass last weekend, but Fr. Unni talked about how the Gospel's message was, "Make my faith greater." I hate quoting the Bible for random purposes, and this seems like the most trivial purpose devised, but it's what came to mind.

I don't even know what it was that made me think to write this. You walked into the room briefly and the mind-spark lit up. You know, the whole lightbulb thing. But here I am, sitting in front of my computer while people down the hall are cleaning up various messes, writing about someone who likely has no idea I'm writing about them. It's kind of sad, really.

So, please, if you do read this, come down, shout in my ear, and smack me in the head, because that's the only way I've ever gotten a message.