Perhaps I'm just an automaton, after all

    Maybe it's the truest sign of my social awkwardness, but I always thought living and loving without an agenda was my one unquestionably good quality. Early in my life -- through brutal lessons in rejection -- my mother taught me that dealing in subtleties often lead to misunderstanding and frustration and needless pain. So, that particular form of intimate diplomacy was an art I never cultivated.

    Over the years, it's gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion, but, on the whole, I've been happy that I don't know how to play the game. Yes, I've been humiliated, and, yes, I've unintentionally hurt the feelings of those I care about. But above all, I've striven to be honest.

    I thought that was the most important thing. It would seem I thought wrong.

    Although it probably wasn't my mother's intention that I take anything away from those exchanges (I doubt she even remembers them) other than my physical presence, I learned to say what I mean and, in some instances, to do it quickly. Because I never knew when I would get another chance to say, "I love you" or "I need a hug" or even, "I'm angry with you for not showing up for your last visitation."

    When I got older, I applied that same logic to romantic relationships, and persisted even when it left me feeling vulnerable or red-faced. Not long after, I learned the value of silence. It was preferable, I figured, not to risk burning bridges with people who were dear to me.

    I have since realized both have their flaws. When I was with the Architect, the greatest hurt he inflicted on me, was when he accused me (and he often did) of speaking in code, of sending hidden messages -- "All women do it," he told me. It made me angry beyond words and cut into my heart -- he may as well have screamed out "liar!", as I saw it -- until I resorted to quiet. Until I figured out it was senseless to argue with a distrustful man, twenty years my senior, whose insecurities would never allow him to accept my love.

    I never expected to revisit a time when a friend wouldn't take me at face value. Last night, I did. and it made me angry beyond words and cut into my heart. And the worst part is, this time I know it is because I failed to understand the signs, apparently glowing like neon for the rest of the world. Because I never learned to play the game.

Jeffrey B. Miller, the Hershey Hunk

At first, we were all just entranced by the fact that his statements actually contained information. That kind of thing is rare from cops in Jersey. We leaned in closer to the televisions when we saw he was actually answering reporters' questions. We moved closer still as he'd remained polite and unflustered. And that's when we saw. The guy was smokin' hot.

Okay, maybe "smokin' hot" doesn't exactly describe him best. He's more of a classically handsome fellow. But the elegant good looks, combined with his steady demeanor and his genuine desire to disseminate information, makes him a straight female journalists' wet dream um fantasy.

After watching several of us (lesbian, straight, male and female) ooh and aah over the guy, one of our editors shook his head and labeled Miller "the Hershey Hunk".

Since you can bet all your "no comments" that we're not the only newsroom buzzing about him, don't be surprised if he ends up on someone's Sexiest Men Alive or 50 Most Beautiful People list.

He's one to watch. Too bad he was brought to light under such horrifying circumstances.