Antisocial Poet Man and Musings over Gelato

Today, in order to have an informal end-of-9th-grade celebration, my friend Saoirse came over around 2:00 to hang out. We planned to go see the "Clash of the Titans" remake at the $2 theater that night, which we did (my dad thought that it was cheesy, but Saoirse and I liked it all right; one of the main characters, we're pretty certain, was the actress who played Violet Baudelaire in the Series of Unfortunate Events movie). When she initially came over, my mother took us all out to lunch at Pancho Villas, a small restaurant off of Stratford Road which is quicky becoming my favorite Mexican restaurant. After being dropped back off at my dad's house, we hung around for a bit, played the piano, and then embarked on a mission to purchase the delicious gelato, which is made and sold by a super-nice lady on the opposite side of the park.
The journey itself was not necessarily a treacherous one, despite the heat and the fact that we had Lancy in tow, a dog who cannot pass any grass without sniffing it to obtain all record of life that passed over the spot. However, once we reached Reynolda Road (I think it was Reynolda - it was whatever road the actual gelato place is on), we remembered that it was indeed rush hour, and that the greedy business men driving by were intent on preventing us from crossing the road to our destination. After about 20 minutes of peering nervously around the parked cars at the oncoming stream of cars, we were finally able to run across the street, glaring at a man in a red car who seemed to be trying to speed up to pass by us before we made it all the way across. Fortunately, he didn't accomplish his task, for we would have then been stranded in the middle of the street as the flow of cars behind him continued. In any case, we entered the restaurant and ordered our gelato, deciding that we would walk back across the street to a shady place on the edge of the park, where we noticed a rather attractive man scribbling in his notebook on a park bench. We waited about 20 more minutes before we were able to cross the street in the shadow of a man who was carrying furniture to his car on the opposite side of the road. As we made it to safety, he said, "You finally made it across!" and I said, "Thanks to you! Have a great day." Then, Saoirse, Lancy, and I took seats on one of the benches which surrounded a large garden of red flowers, all organized into neat, mesmerizing rows. The man took no notice of us and continued to pour out his heart in writing. Saoirse mouthed, "I think he's writing poetry." and I nodded, thinking that the intensity of his concentration as he bent nearly double over his journal made that explanation quite plausible. We continued to watch him idly in his work, conversing about various things as we did so; I had a feeling that he would eventually storm away in frustration because we were interrupting his work, but surprisingly, he remained in the same position the entire time that we were present - it was after about half an hour that we finally decided that it was time to take Lancy back home, due to the fact that the longer we were out, the more he would probably suffer in the heat with his thick Siberian Husky fur. Walking to and from the gelato place, on and off, Saoirse and I discussed that favorite topic of teenage girls: the ideal male. However, through our conversation (and through simple observation), I believe I've decided that the male species (as well as the human species in general) is a variable, capricious one, and that I'm content to be enamored of the constance of music, at least for now. It is a much simpler solution than that of trying to bat one's way through the storm of hormones which whirl us through this Kansas plain of adolescence. As long as I can still play the piano on a mediocre level and make occasional "Wizard of Oz" allusions when elaborating on the effects of hormones, I shall be satisfied.