SCREWED

Recipe for a great way to spend a day that is so hot, you could bake pottery on your own face:

1) Sit in front of a rotary fan for 6 hours, until you finally realize that what you are essentially sitting in front of is a hairdryer on high. Feel like idiot for not springing for A.C.

2) Sit on floor of bathroom with your cats. Feel like idiot for sitting on floor of bathroom, and for having tile mark on ass.

3) Decide to leave apartment and go to drugstore which is bound to have cool, sweet air-conditioning.

4) On the way there, chat with ex-boyfriend about new guy you are dating. When ex asks how anyone could not fall head over heels for you, say, "Aren't you the guy who dumped me in an email?" Feel awesome and super optimistic about future with new guy.

5) Get to drugstore. Realize you need cat litter. Carry home a 14-pound container of said necessary product. Spend most of walk home trying to decide which to throw in front of moving vehicle: 14 pounds of litter, or self.

6) Sweat more than any occasion in recent memory.

7) Buy sushi. That's right - FISH, on a blisteringly hot day.

8) Get home. Dunk head in sink. Eat fish.

9) Follow fish with pint of ice cream. Realize stomach might actually explode all over apartment... and you forgot to get paper towels at stupid, stupid drugstore.

10) Throw self from local belfry.

At least it'll be cool on the way down...

I just discovered that I've been tagged by an LJ friend to write six weird/unknown things about myself.

I can do that.

1) I can do all sorts of things with my toes - they are extremely mobile.

2) Sometimes I have orgasms while I'm asleep.

3) I once ate 6 Cadbury Creme eggs in a row.

4) When I first moved to NYC, I worked as a phone sex operator for over a year.

5) I think if I really tried, I could have a perfect, toned body, which is what I waste hours obsessing over... and yet I never REALLY go for it. This is just one example of how I get in my own way, constantly. I think I'm terrified of ever being happy.

6) When I was in high school, I wrote a very long pictorial tale on a program called StoryBookWeaver that was all about our drama teacher - in code, of course. I still have the disk, but no where to use it... but I wish, I wish I did.

Well, Chey, how'd I do?

I'm sure I've touched on this issue before in these "pages," but I feel that the question bears repeating:

What the fuck is the deal with these bubble blowers all over town? Do they set out thinking: "You know what'll make people buy my bubble machine? Getting hit in the eye with a soapy bubble or three on the way to work! Wheeee!"

I fucking HATE those bubble guys.

What do you do when someone who held a place in your life - your heart - is suddenly gone? When the spell breaks and you realize your little world has just irrevocably changed and... that it's ok? I mean, because the person was a bookmark... special, but never quite the right person to fill the space he or she was holding... and it hurts, but not the way it would if you got your heart broken. Instead it's just the end of something that was never totally right to begin with. So you're missing a piece but not THE piece. And yet... it does hurt. Losing hurts, ending hurts, missing hurts. And knowing that the space is open again, finally able to let in the person who might REALLY be able to fill it... is terrifying. Utterly, totally, completely dread-inducing.

Do you hide forever? Or eat until you are so fucking fat you can't even move?

I'm working on both, actually. Thank goodness I have cats.

So here's the thing: 23 is 23 and 28 is 28. And 23 is simply too young for 28. I have realized over the last two weeks that no matter how sweet, well-meaning, handsome, thoughtful, culinarily skilled a guy is... if he's 23, he's just... too young. I mean, he's reading - and being changed by - books I read years ago. Making statements that he thinks are deep that I know are merely platitudes. Figuring out what he wants to do with his life. Abhorring material things in favor of meaningful contributions. Being "crazy" by hanging out on the platform between subway cars and talking to strangers in bars. Living in a basement apartment.

And there's not a single thing wrong with any of it - in fact, it's absolutely appropriate for a guy who is 23. I did all the same things... when I was 23. But... I don't want to be 23 again, and I don't want to watch someone be 23. Certainly not in my apartment, which is the only place we can hang out.

Am I a horrible person? I don't think so, though I do feel terrible for feeling so... what? Self-important. Bitchy? No. Not hurting his feelings are foremost in my mind at the moment. But I have to say that when I'm in bed with a guy and sex - or anything sexual - is the last thing on my mind because I can't stop thinking about all the other things that just aren't right... there is definitely a problem.

So now... what to do?

Here's the thing about American Idol: once you're down to the final two, they both get a record deal. So who cares who the actual winner is?

Only the WINNER should get the record deal. The other finalist should get tarred, feathered, and dragged through the streets tied to the back of a wagon. Or simply be forced to sleep with Ryan Seacrest.

You know when you're on the phone, and a random stranger approaches and starts talking to you, and you are caught completely off-guard and don't know for, like, a solid 15 seconds what is going on?

That happened to me in a deli today while I was talking to E. about important sexual matters. As a result, I either a) got tricked into touching a crazy guy's ass or b) helped a physically disabled person get his wallet out of his back pocket.

I'm 85% sure it was the latter, but since I was startled and it took me a minute to understand what the guy wanted, I'm honestly not sure. Hopefully I did a good deed and didn't get syphillis from a slightly damp denim pocket.

In other news, I went with E. and S. to a chocolate-tasting class last night, which was my birthday gift. Did you know it takes 72 hours at the factory alone - this doesn't include growing, picking, drying, etc. - to make a single chocolate at Maison du Chocolat?????

No wonder the damned things cost 4 bucks a pop. I gained 17 pounds during the class, and after when I came home and ate "real food" in an attempt not to feel gluttonous. Ha.

I've been spending delicious, romantic, erotic, totally out-of-the-blue nights with a new boy who is probably too young for me and has a stomach you could cut bread on. He is under the impression that I am beautiful, have a perfect body, and a fabulous personality. I hope I don't prove him wrong until at least June.

So, I continue to balance precariously somewhere between acceptance and balls-out panic. I STILL haven't been paid, which means I had to bust into the untouchable savings account to pay my expenses this month... and I'm freaking out about it. I have decided that this is the week I'm getting paid or ELSE. I have also decided that this is the week I am booking a new major commercial. Or else... TIMES TWO.

In a related story, I think my right leg is dislocated or at least permanently - albeit mysteriously - damaged. The horrible, awful pain started last night when I would have been enjoying Sunday night TV with E. and S. if not for a bullshit bunch of "catch-up" shows that aired in lieu instead of new episodes. So somewhere between talking about crushes on boys and eating 9 pounds of Hershey's Cookies-n-Cream nuggets, I tried to fetch more wine for S. and realized I couldn't put any weight on my leg without feeling that death was imminent. E. was all, take an advil, see how it feels tomorrow, bla bla not really concerned with my pain and misery. So this morning it DID feel better and now it feels bad again and I am probably going to have to get it amputated tomorrow. At the Methodist Hospital, which everyone knows is a front for a crackhouse or something which means they will probably amputate my head by mistake and then I won't be able to wear any fashionable summer hats.

In either case, I will at the very least be provided with a better excuse to not go to the gym - other than the usual "didn't feel like it; it is a bad place."

Saw a program about lipo-sculpting today. I want. Need to go on massive diet immediately or else find a very skinny mirror. Summer is coming and I feel poufy and gross. Sigh.

Things I have learned so far in my newly minted 28th year:

1) The iPod IS as awesome as people say. Holy crap.
2) One-night stands are every bit as meaningless and pointless as I remembered. No matter who they're with.
3) There is such a thing as a white-chocolate Cadbury Egg. Where, where to find it???
4) Spring truly is the most glorious time of year. Even though I've been knee-deep in allergies all week.
5) I want someone to fall in love with. Who will fall in love with me.
6) I may have to get a part-time job if I don't start getting paid on time. This totally, totally sucks.
7) I have the best friends in the whole world.

More to come. I hope.

Hmmm... two days until the big 2-8, and I'm feeling the same sense of "do something with yourself, dammit!" that I always do around my birthday. I have this terrible habit of doing the goal-meeting equivalent of arm-chair traveling: I sit around and think of these grand schemes: to go to the gym every day and get in amazing shape, to eat really well, to write my novel (finally), to work on music, to bla bla bla... and I always decide to do it starting on my birthday. Or New Year's. Or Rosh Hashanah. Or whatever bullshit deadline I set for myself. And I never manage to do anything! Pushing aside and putting off are my two greatest skills, it would seem. I want to do better so badly...

Had a most phenomenal weekend. Invited some close friends over for delicious treats in honor of my big day and it was a rousing success. I felt very glamourous and beloved indeed. This weekend is the big celebration, which is really going to be me and the girls getting drinks and whoever else shows up will be icing. Am I getting too old for big crazy parties!!?

Nah.

Had a much-needed, relief-inducing, and gladness-bringing conversation with a certain someone this week. Finally took the power back a little which, for the longest time, I've been so scared to try to do. Not even sure why now, since - though awkward - it was so easy. Simple. I just don't want to be an accidental friend with benefits anymore. If that's the relationship we're gonna have - great. I'm totally cool with it. In fact, I heartily enjoy it. But I don't want it to be this thing we never talk about or pretend didn't happen. It feels... cheap. And I care too much about my friendship with the person to feel bad about any aspect of it. Ah, how much easier life would be if I could be that straightforward and honest with every guy I know.

Assuming I knew any other guys. That I had anything important to say to.

I ate a million Cadbury mini-eggs today. Must go seek out muu muus on sale at once. Ugh.

So, this week has been a shitstorm in the career department. I found out that I got REPLACED on a major campaign which would have paid for my mortgage for, like, the next 6 months at LEAST. Why? Because the stupid, bad, heads-in-their-asses "higher-ups" at a certain company decided to veto the brilliant ad idea that had a hip, cool, young mom as the spokesperson and instead go back to the old, tired, lame-as-hell old-timey mom. In other words, an old lady. So I got ousted.

Why, why, why? Then, on the heels of that, I find out that a commercial I had done a year ago is being taken off the air, which means no more money from THAT. Which means it's back to street walking or trying to find an investment banker to marry me. If only I didn't think investment bankers were so arrogant and annoying, that would be a far less arduous task.

I keep seeing these articles about bloggers who are making millions of dollars. I need to tap into that, STAT. But how?! A mystery.

My birthday is in a week and a half! The happiest day of the year, almost here! Hooray! My mom is taking me out for a surprise activity (she swore to me it has nothing to do with Judaism or investment banker sons of her friends from the country club. I've elected to trust her) and a fancy dinner. After that... who knows? Maybe I'll take myself out for a glass of champagne...

When it rains, it pours. This week has been all about boys, boys and more boys. Next week, I imagine, I will be surrounded by girlfriends and cats - a phase which will last indefinitely. Sigh. But I digress.

This week I had a lunch date with a much older man, met two very cute boys at a party, reconnected with a guy I completely forgot I had a crush on, and got to kiss someone I thought I wouldn't ever get to kiss again. And it was lovely, thanks for asking. I only wish I knew what to do about it besides the usual, which is pretend that it never happened.

The much older man is an interesting situation indeed: he's a mess emotionally and despite a mutual chemistry I know I need to stay FAR away from him. And I told him so, and all my friends were very proud. But he keeps pursuing me... is it actually true about playing hard-to-get after all? I have to say I'm really not interested in dating him, but the situation is fascinating. Ah, life.

Yesterday I had another crazy allergy-like attack similar to the one I had a few years ago when they tested me for this rare tumor called a carcinoid and found... absolutely nothing. That was a total nightmare, but since the symptoms never returned I forgot about it... until yesterday. I almost called 911 because I was in so much pain and could barely stand up. Then the pain went away... and I was covered in hives! Two benadryl and 20 hours of being passed out from it later, I'm fine. But still: what the hell? Now I have to go to the doctor and get all those awful, invasive tests done again, probably. At least the MRI was kind of cool.

Tonight I'm going to a party with a guy I used to sleep with once long ago who is now a friend. I bet he'll try to kiss me. Based on the events of this week, I'm not going to let him. I'm still thinking about other kisses.

Well, that last entry was a laugh-a-minute, huh? Real family fare. Yeesh. Why do some people leave marks on you that are so hard to scrub off?! Anyway, I'm back to my old, neurotic-but-not-suicidal self. Hurrah.

In other news, I brought this enormous sack of laundry to this new laundry place that's a lot farther from my apartment than the usual place but the new one DELIVERS. As I staggered along with what turned out to be 26 pounds of dirty crap I should've washed ages ago in stages instead of all at once, I encouraged myself by thinking about the delightful delivery of the cleaned end-product.

When I finally got there... they were closed. CLOSED. I thought I would actually die if I had to carry the bag back - in fact, I didn't think I'd be able to do it at all. I ended up having to beg the people at Crunch Fitness to let me store it in the women's locker room til I could try again the next day. I have visions of curious gym-goers opening the bag and finding my smelly bumble bee toe-socks and running away in fear and agony.

It turns out they only deliver DRY-CLEANING. And then only if it costs more than 20 bucks. And they were twice as expensive as the old place! I have learned a valuable lesson: never try anything new, ever.

In a related story, I tried something new last night: flavored rice pudding. It was deeeeelightful.

I have the cutest cats ever.

Right at this moment my upstairs neighbor is doing something that is making my radiator pipes clang and there is also a noise that is somewhere between sawing and a sonogram machine. I think I hate it and maybe him, too. His apartment already looks like Hef's Old Man Lech Pad... what else could he possibly be doing to it?

Anyway, thanks for being there over the weekend, LJ. And by the way... I totally knew Crash was going to take the Oscar. And the pimp song, too. Even the Academy has a sense of humor.

I don't have anything funny to say today, I'm afraid. In a quick update, I went out with the guy I mentioned before on a few more dates. We had a great time. Then he got very involved in his vibraphone career and flaked. No great loss. Just another chapter in a life-story that is apparently about me and the men who don't like me enough to get to know me, and the ice cream I eat while I'm feeling bad about it.

Today I spent the entire day trying not to cry as I for some reason thought about - and e-stalked - the Evil One. Why, why, why do I give a shit about the most self-righteous, self-centered individual I ever was stupid enough to fall in love with five years ago? FIVE YEARS. When I think of the energy I have spent worrying about him, and what he's doing, and if he's happier than I am, and who he's dating, and if they're prettier than I am, and bla bl abl abla in that time when I could have been learning a language or writing a novel or teaching myself how to give a french manicure, I want to die. It's pathetic and embarrassing and so sad I don't even know where to put the feelings. I just loathe myself for it and most of all, I don't understand it. How can this guy still be hurting me when he's not even part of my life? When I don't even have a PLACE for him in my life? I didn't leave anything unsaid. I didn't lie about anything. I was open and forthright and thought I was over this. And yet I feel miserable and ugly and a failure and directionless. Here I have all these great friends who spend their time saying wonderful things about me and to me. And I can't say them to myself. I don't think it was always this way. I wonder if the Evil One actually ruined me forever and I'm only just now realizing it. After all - is it possible that instead of all these guys flaking on me in the recent and distant past, I actually just have a wall up that is so high they can't even deal with trying to scale it? Do they sense how hard they'd have to work to make me believe that they REALLY liked me? I guess I can't blame them for not wanting to put that much work into someone they barely know. I did it once - and look where it got me. And what about the guys I've liked since the Evil One? Did I really like them, or have I just been on some kind of hunt to find someone to make me feel like I'm worth something? And yes, I know that no one will love me til I love myself. I really thought I did, for all the self-deprecation and modest mouse stuff. But now I'm just not sure anymore.

When am I going to start feeling good about myself? I don't want to have to wait for some guy to make me feel special. But maybe that's the only way it's going to happen, which is even more depressing.

I wish I could move away somewhere and be somebody else for a while.

I have a date with a new guy on Wednesday, which I'm a bit nervous about, what with my excellent track record and all. I went to a lovely lunch with Sergio's Favorite, who I almost lost to a juice fast and have missed very much, and then decided to hit the gym. I threw on disgusting clothes (including a sports bra, yag) and went to the gym. Again, looked HIDEOUS.

I ran into my date three feet from the gym. Of course.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized I had dried cat barf on the Garbage-Formerly-Known-As-Sweatshirt that I was wearing the whole time.

On the bright side, no matter what I look like tomorrow (gasp: he still wants to go out?!) I will look like a supermodel compared to how I looked today. I hope my sparkling personality doesn't fail next, dissolving into a bunch of moldy knock-knock jokes and poems recited in Olde English.

Bleeeeee.

I have a couple of important things to say that I don't want to forget, and that I want everyone to take note of. Some things have to do with commercials I keep seeing which means my California-based reader (Hi Mary!) might not get it. I know she'll be able to overcome this, however.

1) The guy on the Select Dental commercial could NOT be gayer.

2) There are constantly ads for Sonic running, specifically for frosty treats and right now there is one involving cherry pie filling and brownies. This ad is on about seventy times a day. Where the hell is Sonic?!?!?! I have never seen one. Ever. It makes me so mad.

3) I just ate a Hot Pocket and immediately started having hot flashes and shakes. My hands are still sort of shaky. This proves a theory I have had for a while: Hot Pockets cause early-onset menopause.

4) Today a friend of mine told me about a documentary called "Altered by Elvis." Doesn't that sound like a film in which Elvis is a seamstress?! Stay with me, people.

Ever feel like you've spent the week riding a see-saw? Up, down, up, down... the occasional pelvic-crushing crash when the fat kid gets off and you shoot to the ground, and then the uneasy exhilaration of being balanced back on top, looking around at the scenery?

First I discovered that one of my accounts owed me about a grillion dollars, so I went to my agent and fought it and was right and they are issuing me a check. Then I thought, if they made one big mistake, how many others have I missed in the past!? Why have I been contemplating going back to slinging booze because Mr. Mortgage is a-knockin' at my door when clearly I have been getting robbed blind for months? So I scrupulously went through all my stubs, scripts, everything... and found about 3 grand I was owed! Hooray for me!

Now they claim they did give me that money back in July and I somehow don't have any record of it. I smell a rat. So much for my windfall.

Then I find out that, after doing a month of research, going to appointments, taking tests and getting my eyes dilated and investigating insurance plans... I'm not a candidate for LASIK eye surgery. Or LASEK, either, the new advancement that was supposed to be my saving grace. All I want (besides my own horse farm, a perfectly toned body, a national TV and radio campaign, and a gorgeous boyfriend who loves sushi, ice cream, and has a libido like a roller coaster) is to not have to wear glasses. Yes, I know I have cool frames. Yes, people make comments about how cute I look in specs. Yes, I try to be enlightened and know it's what's inside that counts and a whole bunch of other crap. And despite all that, I still feel just as ugly and dorky and invisible as I did when I was seven and got glassees in the first place. I hate them. I hate wearing them, owning them, needing them.

My SISTER is getting the surgery next week. My surgery. She's getting it. It's the Barbie fucking Dreamhouse all over again. Rage.

Then Friday night I'm supposed to have an evening out with my delish child of a friend/handyman. His plan is to go to dinner, then to my friend's party which was a big deal and 10 years in the planning. I've been looking forward to it all week, and I get all ready and wait... and wait. Then I call and leave a message. Then I call again - no answer. It dawns on me that I'm being STOOD UP. Stood up?! Who the fuck does that? I am so furious, so humiliated, that I want to crawl into my bed and cry for hours, but since I, unlike some people, actually do have consideration for the feelings of my friends, I went to the party and had many apple martinis. Somewhere during the night I got a totally unacceptable message from him saying, Oh, I'm so sorry, don't hate me, blah blah something bullshit. And though I'm still angry and upset I realized eventually... he's just a kid with no manners. And I'm too old to deal with that kind of nonsense. And that is that. It's too bad - I think he's a terrific person. And I don't want to regret spending time and energy being a good friend to him these past few months. But do I really need to make room in my life for someone who obviously thinks I'm not even worth the 20-second phonecall it would have taken to inform me of my soon-to-be ditched status?

I should say not.

Pissant.

So in a haze of feeling sorry for myself, despite my own better judgement, I decorated. I bought a new TV - can somebody say upgrade to a 15 incher? Flat screen, baby, yeah! I got art and photo frames and all kinds of good stuff. Then I went out last night with J. and got asked out by both a sexy male bartender and a very pretty lesbian. An ego boost to be remembered. Back up on the see-saw. Followed, as usual, by dreams about kissing a friend of mine all night long. These dreams must stop. Confusing and futile is what they are. So I spent my Sunday organizing J.'s work office trying not to think about any of it. It took 6 hours and resulted in 10 boxes of garbage. The fact that she's managed to do any work at all with all that crap in there is a miracle and maybe a defiance of the laws of physics.

Exhausted, sated by an amazing episode of Grey's Anatomy, I now must slumber. And, perhaps, share more slow, long, totally imaginary kisses that will leave me feeling strange and wanting all day tomorrow. Unless someone else pisses me off; always a likely and welcome distraction.

Last night I was vehemently chastised by my dear friend N. for abandoning my journal yet again, and since he's abandoning NYC to go be a big star in Chi-town I figured I'd better throw together an entry in his honor. He does, after all, own some very sassy Kenneth Cole pin-striped pants.

To be perfectly honest, not much has happened since my last entry. Let's see... I'm still in my new apartment, which I continue to adore. It now features lavender argyle wallpaper, as hung by the strapping youth I picked up in a pizzeria in August and desperately want to have hours of inappropriate sex with. (Inappropriate not because he's technically my employee, but because he is 22 years old. Which might as well be 13. Oy.) I got two new kitties who are under the misapprehension that they are in training for the Winter Games; they run around my 432 square feet in circles for hours. It's... charming. If they weren't so damned cute I'd have made the acquaintance of a good taxidermist months ago. I woke up one morning a few months back and realized I haven't dated anyone in a year. The ocassional sexual interlude, a dinner here and there, sure... but nothing more. Have I gotten uglier or pickier? Or, God forbid, both?!

I've had an earache for, like, a grillion days. I went to 4 doctors, none of whom did anything useful. The first one was so patronizing I barely got out of there without thrashing him soundly. Then I had a weird tube with a light on it stuffed up my nose by a different guy and, as an extra treat, got to have a rectal exam by an old man. What a sunny, sunny week it's been.

I also tried acupuncture. For those of my 3 readers not in the know, it fucking hurts. It occured to me as I was about to have the first needle put in how much I actually hate needles and that perhaps I had made a bad decision. This was compounded when I discovered that, once the needles are painfully inserted all over one's body, the patient is left alone in a dark room - sans spectacles - to "relax." If "relax' were like "panic" I'd've done brilliantly. As it stands, it was all I could do to not cry out for help when I became certain that my right leg was paralyzed. Another thing they made me do is take home these Chinese herbs and cook them in a pot and then drink what was left. I open this brown paper packet and inside are twigs and berries and leaves and a weird sachet thing of white powder. An hour and a half of boiling later, I had a cupful of the most repulsive brown juice I've ever had the displeasure to drink. I don't cook anyway, and THAT'S what the end result is going to be? And they wanted me to do this EVERY DAY! For that much work, brownies better be at the end. And let me tell you - this stuff was akin to brownies only in its coloring. BLECH.

I'm thinking that, perhaps, acupuncture isn't for me.

Last night I went to see a show with old friends, starring other old friends. I had a fabulous time on all counts, even including when I flirted with a very handsome young man - a friend of a friend - and then felt like an asshole since apparently he's a "name" and I hadn't any clue who he was. Which, to my paranoid mind, means that he must have mistaken my flirting for sycophantic fan syndrome. Terrific. Anyway, I digress. After the after-party, I walked in the freezing cold, munching on a Zone Bar, to the train. Which... was closed. After spending 5 miserable hours WALKING from Brooklyn to Mid-town Manhattan during the MTA strike, I expect perfect, convenient train service at all times forevermore. I continue to be disappointed. So I kept walking through Times' Square, which was pretty much deserted at 2 a.m. on a Thursday, and for the first time in ages I looked up at the lights and ads and buildings and thought: "This is why people come here. What a beautiful, fascinating, metropolis I live in. How astonishing it must be for people to see who've never been to a city like this, and what a shame that I forget that because I'm so used to it."

Then a bum said: "I like the way you smell" at the exact moment I walked past a Sbarro's which was blasting "That's Amore" out of above-the-door speakers.

Disgusted, I got on the Q and went home.

The end.

Or, should I say, over it. Because for probably the first time in the history of this column (which as Sergio, my sexy man-beast, thoughtfully pointed out, I haven't written in a hundred years) I am so happy I could burst into a million pieces. Only instead of pieces I'd probably be bubbles. Shiny bubbles, like the ones those annoying idiots are always blowing in your face in Times Square. Why, why, why must they do that?

I am in my new home. My very own apartment. My tiny, perfect, just-for-me apartment. I bought it. I dealt with a bunch of morons and it is finally over and MINE. Today I painted the bedroom Razzle Dazzle which, for those of you not in the know, is a tres sophisticated fucshia. It looks fantastic. I have nowhere to put my clothes and have been wearing the same ones for a week and I don't care. There is Razzle Dazzle paint on my ankles. I think it looks sexy. It turns out that I own a million pairs of shoes and there is no room for them. So what? I haven't eaten a real meal in ages and I slept on the floor last night because I don't have a bed yet. So? Life is a perfect bowl of cherries.

And now: an update. Hmmm. That unicorn guy? We never had sex again after that entry, actually. He's a lovely friend but frankly, I don't want to deal with nonsense with a guy I'm DATING, much less one I'm NOT. So all is well there. I'm playing softball and I haven't struck out yet which, in my book, is pretty fucking fantastic. I had to put my sweet, beloved kitty to sleep. I am still heartbroken and I miss her so much... but it's getting easier as the days go by. I'm going to visit some kitties this weekend who need a new home and then we'll see how I feel. I have been having naughty thoughts about a friend of mine. And also some really nice non-naughty ones, which is confusing. I am going to dye my hair dark brown. And my eyebrows, too. I bought a gorgeous turquoise coat which is to die for. I have two friends about to have babies, which is mind-boggling. I have three friends who are engaged. I am obsessed with home decorating magazines and Tom Cruise's supposed child-to-be, which I think is a fake. I mean, first of all, I thought she was remaining a virgin until marriage? And isn't he, like... GAY? I wonder if she will have a real virgin birth - maybe she was artificially inseminated? My real guess though, is that this is a publicity stunt to "prove" their love, and will end in a Julia-on-Party-of-Five style "miscarriage." I personally cannot wait for the tell-all book. If I had a time-machine, I would go into the future 15 years just to read it. Seriously. I totally would.

My phone is ringing. I gotta jet, man.

I think I've figured something out, something very valuable and necessary for all women to know and understand: MEN DO NOT BELIEVE IN UNICORNS. I think it's because little boys don't believe in them and so when they grow... men can't and don't. And this is why women are screwed.

Allow me to explain. The unicorn is, of course, a single-horned, horse-like creature from fairy tale books that we are all familiar with. Women have coveted unicorns since they were little girls, whether they were forced to wear pink or actually wanted to. All women like unicorns, no matter what their other preferences might be. Women believe in unicorns. Women want to find a unicorn and keep it in their closet to pet and feed hay to. But let's think of a unicorn for a moment as a concept and not a creature, as simply a magical thing that we dream might just possibly exist and change our lives if we could only just capture it. And this should be what keeps the ladies sane, this strident believing, but instead it is our downfall because our male counterparts DO NOT BELIEVE.

Example of a female "unicorn" as "modern-day concept": A guy actually wanting and manifesting a mature relationship. Women cling to their belief in this unicorn through cheating, through bullshit, through freakouts, through everything. Because they believe, truly, that one day the unicorn will come out of the swirling mist and offer them a ride on its back. Might it happen? Yes. Is it rare? Yes. So are unicorns. But we wait, and we believe.

Male unicorn as concept: No-strings-attached sex. And I mean REAL NSA sex - the kind without sneaky secret thoughts of, "Oh, if I just play along he'll realize I'm special and want to date me." Is real NSA sex rare? Extremely. But does it exist? Yes. It really does. BUT MEN DONT BELIEVE. Even when a unicorn is right there in front of them with a golden bridle in its teeth saying, "Neigh, get on!" or whatever a unicorn might say, they don't see them. They can't. They assume it's a horse in disguise. Even if the unicorn had papers confirming it's actuality, or let the guy wiggle it's horn to prove it wouldn't come off... NOTHING.

Is it because boys never had My Little Ponies to play with? Because no one ever sat them down to enjoy The Last Unicorn or a backyard stroll through a pretend enchanted forest? Don't ask me. All I know is, I am a unicorn. I am offering a guy totally unadulterated, "I don't want anyone to know about this and certainly don't want to be your girlfriend," fuck-me-whenever-he-feels-like-it SEX.

And he doesn't believe it's real. BECAUSE MEN DON'T BELIEVE IN UNICORNS.

Sigh. One more reason to join a cult or convent immediately. At least there'd be something everyone could believe in...