I don't know what you just said because I was thinking about Batman.

I was just leaving the bathroom for the evening, having taken my customary seat on the toilet (even though I didn't need to actually take the seated position but I wanted to read a few pages in the David Sedaris book that currently rests on the tank) when I happened to look myself dead in the eye.

I saw Age there.

It was no more than a glance, a fleeting passing wisp of a presence that I don't know if I've ever felt before.

Like most people, I don't feel old. More to the point, I don't feel like an adult. I feel like I got to about 19 years old and then went to South Africa and skipped a couple birthdays while I was there and when I got back I forgot how to remember the years I was gone and so I'm stuck in this anomaly in the space-time continuum where my hair gets grayer and I get fatter but my Me-ness never changes. It's like the inverse of Groundhog Day -- everything around me is altering, shaping, progressing, decaying. Somehow my body left my soul behind -- just after high school, I think.

Except when I caught that glimpse of Age in my eye in the bathroom mirror at 3:30 a.m., I suddenly saw and sensed and felt every one of my 26 years.

I guess I am an adult. It must've happened when I wasn't looking.

the worth of a game.

I wrote this on the blog I write for at www.deseretnews.com. It's about the value of video games (if they have any [I think they do]). You should go read it.

I don't make plans.

It's hard to tell.

I've got all this... something. Love, I guess. Compassion. Empathy. Charity. Something.

I'm like anyone else; I've been fed (gorged, really) on modern romantic comedies and Disney princesses and classics of unrequited-ness and fantasies that transcend time and space and dimension and (like Rob Fleming/Gordon said) thousands of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. I don't think it has made me miserable, though. It's just made me confused.

It's not that I expect fantasy. I don't. I want reality.

I just can't tell when reality is there. If it's there. If it ever can be.

Everyone else seems to know when it's there. They don't just believe in it; they know. They can tell their eros from their philia, their agape from their storge. They have experience -- real-life, this-actually-happened proof. I don't. I've been close. But not close enough.

I can't tell if I'm living an unwritten life or just writing it myself, but badly. Or maybe the writing is there, but the performance is off, the emphasis all wrong, the metaphor over my head, and I stumble through the reading, uncomprehending, unfeeling, dull.

Because I know not what I do when all this... something, that I have, comes out. There are reasons there, obviously, somewhere inside my psyche, if you'd care to poke around in it (and I'm not sure why you'd care to, but some days I wish I knew how). But there's one reason that should be there. I'm not sure I can identify it.

When you're already willing to do anything for anyone, just because they asked, how can you tell when the asking is more important than the doing?

When everyone means the world to you, how can you tell when someone means the sun and moon and stars?

I don't know.