Friday, February 28, 1997 Just another Friday. Just another temp job. I type and I watch. I type and I listen. I sense I am an oddity to them. The men. You know, the men who run everything. And so I play with them. The men covered neck to toe in suits of wool. (The current incarnation of the wolf in sheep's clothing.) And I let them think I'm innocent to their intentions. I let them sidle up to me, flirting, bantering, strutting their wares in front of me until I pull them close and whisper in their burning ears, "I am what you fear most. I am your nightmare come to life. I am a performance artist. And you are part of my act. I know your name, and I'm not afraid to use it. What you say to me definitely does not go in one ear and out the other. No matter what you have fooled yourself into thinking. What you say stays right between my ears and comes out of my mouth in downtown performance spaces where I tell the captive audience of how you used your attraction for me to humiliate me. And everyone's on my side." Like I said, just another Friday. Just another temp job. Saturday, March 1, 1997 Got a letter from Bart, an old college friend. I had heard that he had come through New York on a business trip and hadn't called me. So I wrote to him to find out what was up with that. We'd been out of touch for a while, but I always expected that we'd call each other whenever we were in each other's vicinity. Bart was one of my best friends at school. Well, sure we slept together, but that's what you did in college. That doesn't mean that we were ever romantically involved. Anyway, here's his letter in its entirety: Hmm. I have to sleep on this one. Sunday, March 2, 1997 Got it. Bart has neglected to consider that just as it takes two people to begin a friendship, it takes two to end it. I've still got his number. And I plan to use it. I'll leave messages on his machine. Cute messages. Intimate, cooing, nostalgic whispers. At some point during the message, I'll giggle. I know where he lives. So I'll write to him, too. He'll get missives full of memories and private jokes and things that only a jealous woman would understand. I know his fiancée, Lisa, will read them, because I'll make it easy for her. I'll send postcards. I'll never once refer to her or to their engagement. I'll treat him as if he were still single. "But doesn't she even know about me?" his precious Lisa will whine. And he will spend all of his time making excuses. Digging out the seeds I have planted before they take root in her mind. Scrambling to prove himself innocent for a crime he didn't commit. Big fights with his fiancée. That's what he gets for writing me off. Someone acts like a stupid jerk, I get even. I'm sorry if this upsets him, but that's simply the way that it is for me.

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