I've told myself time and again that it's not possible that it happened. It's just not possible. It can't be. For a start, the guy's dead. How could I have run into him over and over again if he's been dead for over three years? I mean, unless he faked his death and is now living in a penthouse on the upper east side with Elvis and John Lennon, there's no way it could have been him. And even if by some remote possibility it was him – not that it could have been! - how did he manage to show up everywhere? I mean, no surprise he was on the radio, even if it did seem like every time one was turned on it played one of his songs. But to see him at the toll booth and then at the hotel, and later at the mic at the club Karen dragged me to? On top of all that, there was his mysterious appearance in the Dunder Mifflin lobby, and even as I had decided to leave, he was the valet that brought my car around! God, just writing that all down makes it clear that not only could it not have been him, but I am completely insane to even consider that it could have been.

It had to be my imagination. It's the only logical explanation. My imagination running overtime because of all the stress I was under. It's not a stretch to say I was probably heading for a nervous breakdown. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed at that point, feeling like my life was just running away from me in more than one direction and not having the slightest idea which way to follow it. So maybe it wasn't him. I mean, no – I know it wasn't him. But I've been thinking that it might be a good idea to write down exactly what happened when Karen and I drove down to New York to interview for the corporate job. Well, what I thought happened. What I experienced. Because I can't stop thinking about it, and it's already been well over two months since it happened. I just can't seem to let it go, mostly because I can't wrap my head around it.

I don't think I could tell anyone this story and not have them worry about my mental health. I can't even tell Pam, at least not yet. She's probably the only one I'll eventually tell this to, because let's face it: it was hard enough to keep things from her when we were just friends. Now it hardly feels right if she's not the first person I share everything with. Still, I think I need to write this all down first. Try to make sense of it before I try and explain what happened to her. She probably should really know after all, I guess. You could argue that it's a big reason we're finally together. I mean when Barry White follows you around New York City telling you to go back to the girl you've always loved, what else can you do but listen to him?