I have little confidence that I’ll pick this particular e-habit back up; I just keep forgetting about it. But I was suddenly inspired to log in, mostly on the strength of Wil Wheaton’s four-part blog entry on his participation in an illegal poker game. It had pathos, action, suspense, and…ah, fuggit. My life has none of these things. I work tech support for a living. I need one of these callers to somehow embroil me in an international spy ring, something where I can whip out the pistols I have yet to buy and let the terrorist motherfuckers DIE.

Damn. Vending machine was out of Dr. Pepper.

So there’s a new barista at the Hideout, and true to form I took almost instantly to chatting her up, last time I was in for a ghost tour or improv show or whatever. I mean god-awful hot. So hot it seems to be a travesty that she will not, in fact, be riding home in your red Jetta to meet Lola this evening. Tight black top, and this tan skirt that looks modest enough until you see the gigantic part up the side and you fall off your barstool.

Travesty aside, I was doing rather well being my chatty flirtatious self; she actually seemed way-cool on top of the hotness, which just ain’t fair. But I had my sporty cologne on, so I was a nice-smelling mofo. Didn’t add up to much at that particular moment; I had to run to the show, and she was gone by the time I returned. Sigh. Instead I asked Ryan, the late-shift guy, if she was seeing anyone.

His answer? “Yeah, she’s dating The Enigma.”

Yeah, the puzzle-piece guy. With the horns and the forked tongue. Austin’s own lovable circus-freak mascot. How can I compete with that? Would I want to? I think Robin is officially out of my league. Not in a “she’s better” way. More in a “she’s waaaay over there” way. And wasn’t he married to cat woman?