All previous attempts at a journal have failed. I'm trying again.

I blame it on my tendency to be melodramatic. I always feel like each entry has to be earth-shattering, life-changing, profound. I resolve to focus on banality.

Today was timecard day again. Having taken some days off these past two weeks - the 4th of July at Jenn's parents' house, and the 6th and 9th for the annual reunion at Max's in New Hampshire - and after figuring in leftover hours from previous weeks (my boss can't afford to pay me overtime), I ended up with 32 hours on the first week and 36 on the second week. On reading this, my boss pointed at the figures with his pen, inquisitively. "Not 40?" he asked.

Now, my boss knows full well that I took those days off. But here's the thing: after today, my boss leaves for California, where he's taken a new, exciting, high-paying job. So his long-term interest in this project is, at this point, a little suspect. What does he care, then, if I get a little more money from what is undoubtedly a government grant than I technically earned?

"No, I took a few days off," I explain redundantly.

He shrugs. "Okay." He signs the card.

As I head back to the little sub-lab where I work, he catches up with me. "At least round the first week up to 36," he suggests. "Here - say you worked 4 hours on Saturday."

Well, sure, if he's telling me to do it. Perhaps he thinks my work is of such high quality that I deserve to be paid for hours I didn't work. Rationalization mode on!

He initials the changes. I thank him. "No problem - that's your bonus," he replies.

I could have put 40 for both weeks, and he wouldn't have batted an eye. I feel proud of myself that I didn't, but in the same way that I feel proud of myself for, say, not shoplifting when I exit a store. My work is high-quality, but I already use that to justify surfing the web and chatting with Jenn on zephyr while I'm on the clock.

Unrelated story. On my way back from depositing the time card, I ran across an acquaintance, Ashley. Ashley played Laura in the performance of David Ives' "Long Ago and Far Away" that I directed. Directing someone two years your younger in a show, even one as small in scale as LAFA, leads to fairly strong paternal feelings, so I make a point of saying hello to Ashley whenever I pass her.

She's a good-looking girl, very intelligent, very outgoing, strong personality. (Hell, being a female computer science major, especially at an institution like CMU, takes a lot of balls in and of itself.) Not my type, but quite a catch for a shy, skinny, awkward young man like the one she was walking with. It didn't look like he'd quite reached that point yet.

Anyway, she sees me before I see her. "Hey Gus." "Hey Ashley." And continues her conversation with her walking companion, with whom she's about to part ways. "Anyway, so I'll see you later on, right?" Out of mild curiosity, I turn my head around slightly to catch a glimpse. With only the slightest hesitation, she moves in and gives him a hug.

He's caught completely by surprise. He manages to return the hug with some difficulty. On his face is the most priceless expression - a combination of shock and pleasure that so wonderfully captured the archetype of the awkward young kid who has inadvertenly attracted the attentions of a strong woman.

I should know. Ten months ago this Sunday, I was that kid too.