I need to meet more people.

Yesterday, as I felt a giddy flutter of happiness when the clerk at Quimby's Bookstore told me I didn't have to show ID because "Aww, you've been in here," it occurred to me: I should get out more. Maybe I could be feeling the giddy flutter more frequently! Maybe people would start recognizing me at the bar and the coffee shop, not just the nerd heaven down at Quimby's, where a red-letter day is when the new Chris Ware comic book comes out or Jessica Abel comes to do a book signing.

All of which brings me to my current dilemma: should I invest in a car with my hapless boyfriend, given his history of financial misdeeds and my history of financial hyper-cheapitude? The current situation has long outlived its sensibleness: we ride everywhere in his ancient Honda two-seater thugmobile, which is referred to by all members of my family as "that deathtrap" and which occasionally draws alarmingly envious looks from our local neighborhood teen boys, in whose eyes you can almost view the reflection of the car tricked out with a spoiler, iridescent paint and one of those super-loud exhaust systems that signal the approach of a very fast dragster.

Plus he currently drives me everywhere, which lends an unpleasant note of dependency to the relationship.

Thoughts? I like the Subaru wagons, mid-90s models. Then he could transport his eight thousand pounds of ugly DJ equipment to his gigs out in Hick Haven, and I could go birding and take myself to the bar and what have you. Go out more, I mean.