i decide that writing a book without any content is a fucking waste of time, so i make a second trip to the bookstore--a different one. the one at the center of town--same name, but they deal in new and used, so there's a different selection. big brings over a book that he says he enjoyed--a river sutra. i'm on page 6 and have returned to writing despite my lack of computer--and lack of content.

i'm in cambodia, on a hammock, and it is raining--the sky is a consistent whitish grey and the music in this common area of the guest house is way too loud.

there are several people here--reading, lounging. there's a woman sitting on a red cushion about 15 feet away. she's wearing a denim jumper, but it doesn't suit her or really fit that well. i've seen her a couple of times in this common area. she never looks comfortable with herself and there is something awkward about her. i've concluded that i am superior to her and am frustrated with myself for my natural shallow tendencies of unjustifiable judgement. out of the corner of my eye, i can see that she's watching me as i write. she stares while moving awkwardly to the loud music. she looks as though she is intrigued by me--and my writing. maybe she's watching me before she gets enough courage to ask me about what i am writing. perhaps she simply wants to befriend me. i don't give her the time of day.

when did i become so cruel?

i think about this question that i've intended to be rhetorical and after about 10 seconds decide it was some time between high school graduation and freshman year of college. since then, there have been bouts of good and eras of evil. i blame 9 years of living in pure dysfunction with sally and matt. it's my easy out, but i happily take it.

between me and the inferior staring denim jumper wearer, is big. he's reading the book that i finished this morning--the one that sent me scouring the shelves of phnom penh. there is awkward air between us and i know it's solely dependent on the fact that i was a complete shit to him after our [product X] meeting with j&e. i don't know what my problem was. is, rather. i'm still being a little bitch.

the house's dog wanders over and plops down next to the hammock. i rub him and pat him and he soaks it up as if he doesn't get much attention. the workers all look over in what i pretend to be amazement and i secretly want them to tell me i'm the only guest the dog has ever allowed to touch him. as i look over to jumper wearer, i wonder why i need this upper hand. i pat the dog as we make eye contact.

i pretend she's jealous.

she stands up to leave and my focus shifts to big. he's clenching his jaw as he reads. in the time that i have known him, about a year and a half now, i've associated his jaw clenching with him thinking and i wonder if he is really reading or just thinking behind the protection of EMERGENCY SEX. good book. good title. i wonder what i will name my book. wonder if people will read it. do i want people to read it? i picture oprah adding it to her booklist and bringing me onto her show. i've always wanted to be famous.

"hello. i'm luca--the judgemental, heartless, bore you've all read about. thanks for having me, oprah. hello america."