Science fiction double feature.

This morning, I opened my school email account like I always do--with a cringe and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy that will be called out in strong words by my writing/editing professor.

Thanks for the confidence, j-school.

But I was pleasantly surprised to (also) find an email from Cape McFloppy Hair, saying he'd like to read my sci fi stories I told him about and further explaining a script of his that he talked about while we were waiting for the comedian to go on last night. This turned into a couple back-and-forth paragraphs about our opinions on themes in science fiction in general. I tacked on my sleep-bot and superhero stories, went to lunch with a smile on my face...

Train of thought: I kind of like this guy. I've kind of liked approximately a half dozen guys since I got back from winter break. That's the most enjoyable conversation I've had about writing in awhile. I kind of miss dates. Did he get home okay last night?

...and ran into him five hours later, as I was lugging camera equipment back to my dorm and he was going the other way for a 5:30pm class.
And then Mike called to see if I could meet him for dinner while Mike waited on Cape to get out of class so Cape could ride home with Mike instead of in Cape's busted up oil-eating Civic.
I don't know why that makes me feel slightly incestuously creepy. They're roommates, for fuck's sake. I should probably be more creeped out by the fact that this spell check knows how to correctly spell "incestuously."

Sending my stories to people I barely know is not the breathless stones-shriveling act of sheer audacity it feels like when I send them to good friends. As long as I don't think you'll recognize yourself in my fiction, I'm fearless.

Mike really liked the sweater I wore today. He spent five minutes complimenting how flattering it is on me, and then another two wondering out loud if that sounded creepy. He can, in fact, lift me off the ground, and it's taken him a year and a half to say something parental about my giant-ass backpack.

"Looking for freelance starving artist." Aren't we all?  Or do I have that reversed?