The true test of being over someone-- not using the edit menu's search tool to check for your name in it every time you visit their online journal for whatever little reason.

A supplementary bit of knowledge: They were probably over you about two weeks after the last time you were mentioned. (This is void when it's clear that they're using a pronoun, a group of people, or a non-entity in place of your name. Trust me. I know these things.)


True sign of not being over someone: falling in love with, and obsessing over, literally anyone in order to distract yourself from them, including:
A- Some stranger you see on a weekly-ish basis, who's name you don't know, and therefore you refer to as some funky nickname like "Mr. Muttenchops" or "The Tuesday Guy." These names might also involve Dairy products, for those of you who get my meaning.
B- Straight, underaged girls that you have on-and-off friendships with.
C- The guy who works in the fish department at your pet store. No, I'm talking in universal terms here. Really.

People not in this group:
A- Your husband.


So...today was the first day I actually found "The Fish Guy" to be very physically attractive. I've probably talked about this phenomena I call "work crushes" before-- they are the epitomy of attraction based on convenience. Nothing has to be right with these people, really, it's just got to be not terribly wrong. There are a few things in common with the work crushes I've had in the past:
A- They're all within five years of my age.
B- They're all of a gender that I find attractive. (either male or female.)
C- None of them are so horribly bad looking that I'd rather defecate into my own toaster than look at them for too long. Assuming I was going to use the toaster again.

The Fish Guy, who replaced "The Cheeseman" in Linda's timeline of distracting male figures, is tallish (+), strongish(+), not darkish or handsomeish(-,-), but I have come to discover that underneath his glasses (+) he has blue eyes (+), and he looks (as of today) really good when he has the half-amused, half-dismissive smile on his face that only I seem to evoke in him (+).

Were I to not spend roughly 28 of my 40 working week hours in the same general area as The Fish Guy, I would not give him a second glance. But work is boring. And boredom, I have found, breeds wantoninity. (copyright)

I feel constantly compelled to point out that Zack is fully aware and accepting of my two man system (One to be my all, my everything, the person who completes me; the other to let me do all that fun unrequoited infatuation bullshit that I was such the honor student at during my school days.) and he is as aware of The Fish Guy as he was of The Cheeseman and of the brief but mentionable mini-crush on The Underaged Girl, all of whom replaced someone I shall now award the moniker of "The Wifebeater", which is a private joke between me and The Wifebeater himself. "The Wifebeater" is the one who I am not over, but I am notably more over him than I was, let's say, three or four months ago, with the help of a barrage of aptly named sidekicks. I no longer have to refer to him as "him" or as "someone", "everyone", or "no one!!!". I dub him THE WIFEBEATER!!! And, thusly, can stop it with the previous nonsense.

That's gotta be something, right? Someone mark this spot.


Anyways, "The Fish Guy" is a new challenge. I must get him to fall desperately, incredibly in love with me despite the fact that he knows that I am married, and therefore:
A- He can not have me.
B- If he could have me, I would be a horrible person. And why would he then want me?

This challenge is new, and did not pertain to The Cheeseman or The Underaged Girl because:
A- The Cheeseman did not know my name, just as I did not know his, and he certainly had no idea I was married. (Incidentally, the flame died, I think, when we found out each other's name. He is Brad. I even know his last name, sadly. It begins with an S.)
B- The underaged girl, I didn't want to manipulate into loving me. Much. She was so...underaged. And straight. And, really, too good to be toyed with the way I toy with, well, let's just say it, men.

I made a breakthrough in this case today, as I leaned over the trash can he was filling through a syphon with dirty fishtank water, when he made a joking reference to a crush he thought I had on another co-worker. Clearly, he understands the nature of the flirtatious crush situation I so covet-- it's not malicious. It's entertainment. Now, I merely have to make him realize that he is the recipitor of my, uh, "affections", and then I have to dangle that fact in front of him like season tickets to the Bills (he's a sports fan...there, I said it.) until he wants much, much more than I do, and, ultimately, converts to some weird religion where they devote themselves to some girl they could never have, and live a life of silent agony. But not before he slams be against the goldfish wall, takes my head between his hands and half-mumbles, half-screams "I must have you" as he kisses me passionately, and I push him away. "I'm a married woman." I would say. Then he'd have to realize how completely and utterly devoted I am to...Zack. Yes. Zack.


On with it.

No other way to say it: we need more Americans like Andrew Veal.


Also, I can't help but be amazed by the irony of his last name-- Veal. Young, destroyed by a senseless slaughter more or less carried out by the Texan himself. Goddamn.


On with it.