When to Look the Other Way

Turns out the kid that kisses like a teenager needs a code name. Also turns out that he's found the blog and, through the magic of google analytics, I'm also graced with the information that he's made himself a regular and avid reader. Well. After a deep breath and a solemn salute to the art of literature, I decide to plow forth uncensored and unashamed. (Risking the loss of a friendship and a conversation with a straight face almost certainly.) That said, we'll call him TMI. Teenager-Man-Impersonater. Also the other more obvious meaning.

Last night I allowed the above to my apartment where we did shamefully teenager-like-things like wear big sunglasses, listen to music, and talk about insecurities. We did have sex. And frankly, this time I shall refrain from detail because I'm well aware these passages are being heatedly searched and meticulously deciphered for a review. Tragic. I’m making frantic faces to encourage reading between the lines here. So much for my pride. I think the aforementioned “art of literature” just fizzled away piteously in a cloud of smoke.

What I really want to mention is that, when I re-entered my little medieval sky nest at 1 am this morning, (I was at a movie,) I found that I could see B's head through his skylight... pacing. I watched him with a confused facial expression for a good 20 min to be sure that was, in fact, what he was doing. Pacing. 4 steps to the right, a quick turn, and 4 steps to the left. This looks decidedly unhealthy. Even more so than the plates of partially eaten white rice that are piling up on his dining room table. I haven't visited in about a week and when I do it's brief and infrequent; frankly that whole scene depresses me viciously. Do I need to.. do something? Or is this one out of my hands?