As I write this, I'm sitting at Buffalo Wild Wings on Bardstown Road in Louisville, having a yummy Newcastle (5270) and waiting for my yummy naked tenders with spicy garlic sauce to arrive.

I brought my notebook with me. I was going to try to write a long-overdue update for my anonymous journal, but this cutie bartender keeps distracting me with her various feminine attributes. And talking to me. A lot.

Damn these good looks of mine!

To be fair, however, it's probably more than that. Or maybe even something completely different than that.

See, what's happening, I think, is that people, such as this little cutie-patootie bartender with the perky and shapely breasts, people see me smiling. Smiling like I'm smiling today. Smiling like there's no tomorrow. And they assume, because of the smiling, that I'm a friendly and maybe even *gasp* a sociable person.

They don't know the story of why I'm smiling. They don't know how rare it is. How could they possibly know?

So they see me smiling, and maybe they hear me laugh out loud for no discernable reason. And I seem like a nice enough person. And they talk with me and sometimes they flirt with me.

And I don't have the heart to tell them that this smile, and this laugh, they're not for them. And that I kinda wish they'd leave me alone for a while.