The other night I watched "Vantage Point," via The Netflix, and 3/4 into it had an existential panic attack as I realized that, if I'm not careful, I'll lose my life to crappy movies (interestingly, Vantage Point, didn't really have one). I felt the same way in the last 100 pages of Eat, Pray, Love. Brevity is not only the soul of wit, but people who respect my mortality. Anyway, in order to clean the palate of my brain, I decided to start watching Netflix films and shows with proven quality. My imagination needs some nutrition before I can go back to watching the blockbusters.

So, last night, I watched Annie Hall before going to bed. Just because you're a perv, doesn't mean don't have vision. Great cameo by Jeff Goldblum.

Just for today, I can avoid wasting my life.

Last night, I managed to tear myself away from my intense Salsa Schedule to go out on a Real Date.

Conversation. Wine. Appetizers. No body rolls, exchange of body slime, or grinding. Boring, but in a good way.

Still, I wanted to make it to the club before midnight, and I tried not to be obvious about glancing at my watch. And this is someone I like! Doesn't bode well for a relationship, but at least I have other interests.

Anyway, we were done by 11:00 and I was free to pursue my addiction.

Just for today, I can date.

Friday is the day to drink wine. Saturday is the day to scrub the residue from the shower tiles with Herculean power. Sunday is the day to deal with the weird feelings that you drank wine and scrubbed tile in order to avoid. And Monday is the day to process it all in therapy.

Tuesday thru Thursday are the days to be distracted with life.

Just for today, I can have weird feelings.

I just came back from the Santa Monica pier where I was supposed to meet some friends on the sand and listen to the concert. Clearly, my brain is occupied with other matters because I arrived sans cell phone, money, or a jacket. I'm surprised I had shoes on. I walked around and looked for them, but couldn't find them. Even if somebody has loaned me their phone, gone are the days when I actually memorize people's phone numbers...talk about bad planning.

Anyway, I decided to forget the whole thing and I ended up in Bebe trying on tops (nice stuff in that store).

Just for today, I can accept my limitations and be gentle with myself when I futz my whole night up.

I've been putting so much pressure on myself to finish this book proposal before I'm destitute and homeless, that my blog has kind of suffered. Not that it shines under normal conditions, but at least it's spell-checked.

When I told my friend that I was "going for broke" with my writing, I didn't realize how literally I was speaking. Why does life cost so much money? I can't even drive by a Target without dropping $50.

I'm starting to understand why writer's become alcoholics. Actually, I understand why any living person becomes an alcoholic, but writer's more so. There's only so much time anyone can spend examining their thoughts and words before some kind of internal combustion process starts to take place. Writing is definitely a neurotic activity and not something anyone should undertake without the distant hope of financial reward. At least math problems have one answer.

Just for today, I can examine my imploding brain.

I spent a beautiful afternoon and evening dancing on the promenade in Santa Monica and practicing my Lady Styling moves as seen on multiple YouTube videos. My friend deemed us YouTube Salseras.

Whenever I think I'm hitting Salsa Burn Out (no more salsa), or a Salsera Slump (can't think of anything to do for my Ladies Styling), or Salsa Purgatory (the same shit over and over again), I always go out and re-experience how much fun it can be to spend hours dancing around friends. Salseros are pretty cheap-o people (no offense), but still, it's very inexpensive fun. Especially, when I think about how much money it costs to go out and get drunk. Salsa is free, fun, a work-out, and you don't get a hang-over (just get tired).

Just for today, I can enjoy my vida salsera.

My mom tried to pawn one of my sister's cats off on me with the not-very-convincing argument, "she's going to die soon, anyway." Well, that's comforting. I get attached to another form of life that leaves me so that my abandonment issues can be triggered and I can learn more lessons about the impermanence of life...no thank you. I'll stick to white wine and salsa dancing (though, not together).

It was almost working, though, and I was inches away from becoming a Creepy Cat Lady when my allergies kicked in. I think they're actually functioning on behalf of my ovaries as part of some biological alarm clock crying out, "Don't get the cat if you ever want a consistent sex life!" Notice the choice of the word "consistent?" Actually, it really just takes one time. The point is, whether or not anyone will come out and say it, cats are the ultimate form birth control for single white ladies.

Just for today, I can consider cat adoption.

I'm home visiting my family and friends, and just had dinner with Old Friend From College, High School, Junior High, etc. I told her about my college journals which offer an excruciatingly detailed account of each and every place we drank watered down beer, smoked pot, and what clean-cut Ivy League male victims were present. She says that her mother tells people that she majored in College. I minored in Boys. As it turns out, there's more to a college education than being drunk and obsessing over a guy, and I now wish I'd shown up for more than my Shakespeare and Playwriting classes (although, those classes rocked). It's not that I regret doing keg stands with her (although, it probably wasn't a good idea to let the crew guys kick in the ceiling), but I could probably stand to know a little bit about Chinese culture, Middle Eastern history and economics at this particular juncture in time.

However, life goes on and, and it seems that everyone is in agreement that college was a lot easier than Real Life. Whenever my friends talk about marriage, my Inner-14-year-old comes out and says things like, "That sound, like, hard."

Lately, I've been feeling glad that I don't have any of The Stuff (house in a mortgage crisis, husband obsessed with porn, and a home theater to watch Netflix and escape the world). It's not that I think I'm winning the game of Life, I just decided to throw it out long ago, along with my Ouija board (I'm just kidding, I would never throw away an Ouija board...however, I do think an entity might have carried it off).

Old College Friend and I made a pact to go to our fifteen year reunion.

Just for today, I can connect with old friends.

The downside of being a Sweat Drenched Salsa Slime Beast is:

1) Must do a LOT of laundry
2) Can only dance with other Slime Beasts because like water, SDSSB's seek their own level.
3) Can only attract men who find the the SDSSB look sexy or "beautiful."
4) Constantly thirsty [though, I started bringing the magical (i.e. alkaline) water with me to the clubs and it seems to keep me more hydrated].

The upside of being a SDSSB is:

1) Detox like a mofo
2) Skin looks great
3) Sweat works like really great hair gel if you don't wash your hair the next day
4) Good way to gross out unsavory characters (unless they like SDSSB look)

Just for today, I can look at the positive side of being a slime beast.

I don't know how much more can be said about my ability to sweat, but I'm starting to think I should bring a change of clothes to the club. Last week, my friend Ivy League Salsera and I went to the AM/PM after dancing to get some electrolytes. Anyway, I had, as usual, drenched my clothes and when I pulled my money out of my bra, where it's (usually) safe, it was soaking wet.

The cashier was talking to three black guys about Kobe Bryant like he was a close personal friend, and didn't notice when I took my money out of my bra. However, when I handed the money to him, he knew it was wet.

"You bin in da poo'!" said the cashier. I nodded and smiled as if, yes, indeed I had just fully clothed jumped into a swimming pool at 1:00 am.

Just for today, I can be a Sweaty Salsera.

"I love the sweat, it's so beautiful," said this guy I was dancing with last night. The interesting thing is that I wasn't really sweating that much, at least for me. I don't know if he's seen me in rare form, but it's not a pretty site. On a hot night, I look like I just jumped in and out of the ocean, only fully clothed. It's hard to believe that my body can contain that much liquid. One time I weighed myself before and after salsa dancing and it was a 2 lb. difference. Sometimes, it gets to the point of ridiculous and I have to stop dancing before I turn into a walking sketch show of someone with a serious glandular disorder.

Just for today, I can be a Sweaty Salsera.

I hope everyone enjoyed Yet Another Excuse To Get Drunk Day. I'm sure puking by the beach is what our forefather's had in mind when they established this holiday. Cynical? A little. That's what ten years of 4th of July's on the beach will do to a person (though, I suppose, a small price to pay for the year-round benefits).

4th of July makes me wish I had a big boyfriend who, while kind to me and those he cares about, has no problem punching drunk lewd men who swarm the beach areas on national holidays. I'm seriously considering taking up boxing. I'm not tall or big, but, really, how much force do you need to take down a drunk guy? All you have to do is get him off his balance, and let his defunct motor skills do the rest.

I'm starting to understand how skinny little guys feel.

Just for today, I can ponder tempered violence.

I just watched "Californication" and now David Duchovney is my new boyfriend. Before that it was James McAvoy in "Atonement" and before that it was Matt Damon in the "Bourne Identity" series, and before that it was Leonardo DiCaprio in "Blood Diamond," and maybe before that (it all blurs together from here on out) it was Kevin Connolly from "Enterouge," and before that it was Russell Crow in "Proof of Life," and before that it was Gael Garcia Bernal in "Y Tu Mama Tambien," and before that it was Mark Wahlberg in anything, and before that it was Brad Pitt in "Thelma and Louise," (and, though, I hate to admit it), a little in "Legends of the Fall," and before that - at some point in time - it was Tom Hanks in "Bosom Buddies" and before that it was Ralph Machio in "Karate Kid" and before that Jason Bateman in "It's Your Move."

Just for today, I can reflect on my pathetic personal life.

Today, Evil Flash Programmer took me out to lunch and gave the download on married life. Apparently, after only a few months of marriage, EFP's Brazilian Bride proved unfaithful. Fucking bitch.

Not that I said anything to that effect to Evil Flash Programmer. I was very supportive and full of cliches like, "Relationships are hard," or "At least she's trying," or "We can't control things, sometimes. " That's how I am with all people who I care about. Outwardly supportive of their relationship, but, inwardly, keeping score. I left feeling sad. I hate to see Evil Flash Programmer unhappy. The crap we put up with all for the fantasy of love.

Well, at least I don't have that problem now.

Just for today, I can have lunch with Evil Flash Programmer.