I don’t know her name, and it’s bugging me. I googled her number, I looked for her on the yellow pages, and I started asking around the Huntington about her…well, kinda. It was more like pretending to be interested in volunteering and then refusing, then changing my mind, just to get back to the point of asking if there were chicks involved in the Shakespeare garden. It was awkward. Never thought I’d be so desperate just to figure out a girl’s name…
I have her number, I rewrote it on my finger tips. I’m scared to write it anywhere else. I think it’s very representative of my intrastate of visual understanding – expressive to the nuance of my glossy picturesque memory. Not seeing it makes me doubt that the numbers are really in their order. I tried it earlier today, and it didn’t help that I couldn’t see it. The numbers 626 became 622 or 226 or 662 or 262 and so on and so forth. It’s a bit silly, but I have to admit, anything beyond a 323 area code makes me nervous. I remember taking the bus down to Pasadena, and seeing less and less brown people in the streets. It’s like Disneyland, without kids.
This is actually a little exaggerated, really. I’m not dialectical or anything, but the idea of losing her number just loses the point of meeting someone I’d like to date. Call me obsessive, but to call a pretty girl without knowing her name is embarrassing. I mean, what happens when she picks up and I guess her name? Wouldn’t that sound scandalous, like I was dating someone else at the same time? Or even if she didn’t think that, would she want to see me still? It’s kinda weird, right?
I’m feeling down. I’m gonna try facebook, and see if the Huntington has a group page for their volunteers. I have to know her name.