Just for today, it's OK to sometimes get angry. Some days I fantasize about lining up all of the great spiritual, self-help gurus against a wall in a highly air conditioned room and throwing freezing cold water balloons at their faces while asking them, "How does your vibration feel now?!" Despite my shame at having this fantasy, I know that sometimes anger is a healthy sign that I am growing new boundaries. Perhaps I need to stop reading self-help books for a while and go back to reading "great" works of literature about war, murder, incest and tragedy. These books may have been written by alcoholics and mad men (not many women) and people with no recovery, but least they're entertaining. Dostoyevsky may never have learned about creating positive vibrations, but then again, he probably never had to worry about finding a parking space in Century City.

It's OK to be cranky sometimes. Especially when I have lots of work to do and no love relationship to go home to. While I can learn to love myself more and more everyday, I can also accept that sometimes it would be nice to not have to keep saying affirmations and working to be kind and gentle with myself. It would be nice if there was someone else who could show me how to be kind and gentle with myself. However, this is just my little girl wanting a parent to take care of her. Sometimes the only solution is to get a little cranky and apologize if I'm rude to anyone.

Just for today, it's OK to not feel OK and to not want to to do anything "just for today." Sometimes I feel like I live in a horrible world where horrible things happen to people and I don't trust "God" or "the universe" or "energy" or "love" or anything. And I don't want to admire Helen Keller or Anne Frank or people who suffered and overcame anything. I just want to feel sad for all the loss and pain that people endure. I don't want to grow spiritually and be more compassionate, I just want to have fun and be joyful. Just for today, it's OK to not be OK.

Wars and natural disasters are a big deal. Sales at Anne Taylor Loft are not. A deadline at work is a very important priority. Your fifth invitation to Friendster.com is not. Check-ups are vital, pedicures are not. An oil change is mandatory, a facial is not. Because I tend to overreact I need to really look at what I'm worried about and why, so I can stop running around like a chicken with her head cut off (overused and gross imagery). Just for today I can put life in it's proper perspective.

The other day I found out that my ex-boyfriend has a new girlfriend. The bridge to that relationship is no longer available for me to traipse over to whenever I'm feeling lonely. I thought about all of the wonderful things about this person and how poorly I had treated him at times and I started spontaneously crying throughout the day. At one point I sat at a park bench and started sobbing. People walked by outside while tears gushed out of my eyes. I tried to look like I had allergies, but then I thought, "what's so wrong with crying? Is this shameful?" And then I realized that it's rare that I walk down the street and see anyone sobbing on the corner. I see people laughing or looking happy, or maybe even angry, but never sad. I can't imagine that all the people in the world don't have things to be sad about, with all the cancer, wars, divorce, unemployment, and loneliness that's in the world. But people just don't seem to cry in public in our culture. So, I thought of my own outburst of tears as a form of service to the world. Just for today, I don't have to feel shame for being human.

Hugs are far more important to human health than most people admit. Infants will die without human touch, even if their other needs are taken care of. According to one study, humans need at least ten hugs a day. When I read this, I realized that I have been depriving myself of hugs. I average only five or six hugs a week. Perhaps if I lived with someone, this number would go up. I guess if the situation ever becomes dire, I could knock on the door of my neighbors and ask them for a hug contribution. Just for today, I can raise my hug quota.

Sometimes it's important for us to try new things and to do things that we may not be the best at. In fact, sometimes we may try new activities, such as a Jazz dance class, where we may be one of the worst ones in the class. During such times it is important to give ourselves credit for suiting up and showing up. With this in mind, it's also important to remember, that sometimes we should try to do things that we might have some chance of being successful at. This way, we won't have to face the humliation of having people in class asking us to move to the back row. Also, sometimes it's important to do activities that don't involve a large full length mirror. Just for today, I can give myself credit for taking Jazz dance and spend some time thinking about whether or not I want to go back.

As a co-creator of my own reality, I accept that my relationship with my computer is a reflection of my own inner emotional and mental state. I am cognizant of the fact that my computer is an inanimate objects (really, just a bunch of particles and matter), and can not possibly be, at times, possessed by evil spirits hell-bent on causing me to have a nervous breakdown. So when my computer crashes for no apparent reason, I can look to myself to see what kind of energy I am giving my computer. Am I stressed? Am I anxious? Am I treating my computer like an abusive boyfriend? I am not a victim to what FEELS LIKE psycholgical warfare with technology. Just for today, I can detach from my computer's strange (yet, not personal) behavior.

Nobody told me that singing Karaoke in my car on I-5 could be so hazardous to my sanity (and even more hazardous to my bank account.) Something about belting out "Isn't It Ironic" to my new Alanis karaoke CD sent me into an apparently high-speed dream state (I was in "the zone"). However, the sound of sirens and the flash of blue and red beams really snapped me out of it. I tried to refrain from singing for the rest of the trip, but boredom came upon me and then I found myself speeding again! And I thought singing was healthy. Question: how many other innocent hobbies/activities must I sacrifice? Blogging is hazardous to my personal life, shopping leads to desperate compulsive wanting state, lying around my apartment is "isolating," dating people I really like is my "crack/cocaine" (according to irritating self-help gurus...interestingly, crack/cocaine is also my "crack/cocaine")....what is left...Monopoly...Please, Lord, help me find interesting healthy pursuits.

Just for today, I can be careful while I pursue my passions.

I think I'm annoying my friends with the barrage of confessional self-obsessed monologues that seem to stream out of my mouth without any self-control. I love to reflect on my "issues," discuss my "process," and what I said to therapist (and what she said back)...I can't help it, I get some high of off inner growth (or at least the attempt at it). But there does comes a time when I have to learn to start keeping it light. It's OK to discuss the weather, or the decorations on the restaurant wall, or my nail polish. It doesn't all have to be about the dregs of my childhood, a literary comparison of religious text, the meaning of life, etc...What should I have for lunch? Who's winning (whichever sport)? What's going to happen on the season finale of "Friends?" See, I'm practicing.

Just for today, I can keep it light.

Certain parts of my life are like budding little plants. My dreams and hopes, new creative projects, career and romantic risks. However, I have to be careful about who I share these parts of my life with because I may as well stick my plant in an arctic snowstorm and have it freeze and die for all the support I get. Not only that, but I also get "clutter" in my vibration (as if the clutter in my cabinets isn't daunting enough, I now have to worry about my vibration as well...will it never end?). The point is, is that it's lonely out here in Grown-up Land. It's not as easy to find people who jive with my sincerity. There was a lot more company for me when I availed myself to snarky comments and sarcasm. Of course that was lonely too, because I had to battle the knives coming at me, but at least people thought I was normal when I took the abuse. Still, at least I have a chance now at having a life that I want.

Just for today, I support the budding plant of my positive vibration.

A few years ago, my sister was having some problems, and my parents hired a pschologist who ran some tests on her. As it turns out, she has a condition known as Humanitis, an affliction that hits some people in their early-teens. It is a disorder whose symptoms consist of a complete and total inability to engage in any pretense, and a proclivity to human reactions to life. If not treated, it can really wreck havoc on families. For instance, if you don't do something someone wants you to do, and they threaten to hurt you, the response of someone with Humanitis will be to get upset, or angry or cry. That's just one symptom. Or another symptom is not wanting to put a frozen smile on your face when people are overtly condescending or try to bully you (I know I have this symptom). Generally, it's a problem because it makes it hard to function in society, can make you unemployable in occupations that attract a high number of people with Kissassistis (a disorder whose symptom is complete soulessness).

The treatment consists of a barrage of medication and some intense socialization (clearly, I never had this) about how to be passive aggressive and communicate with silent evil looks. Because she's young, my sister is getting help, however, I think I may be too far gone. For years I've shown emotion at the work place, crying at my desk and everything. However, in the past few months I've started to say what I think at all times, and not laughed at jokes that aren't funny (especially ones told by people in authority). I'm a little scared, but there is also a liberation in my acceptance.

Just for today, I can accept my Humanitis.

The good news is that I'm having a good skin day. The bad news is that there's no one around to impress, so I'm wasting it on the people I work with.

There's something about crying sessions over emotional abandonment issues that makes my skin really appear a lot healthier and more glowing. It's a secret that would destroy the beauty industry. If women all over LA started to tap into their feelings of abandonment and fears of being unlovable, there would be no need to buy $50 Dermatologica face cream, or all the other crap women spend their hard-earned cash on. (This is not, by the way, the reason why I break down in tears. I just notice the difference it makes on my complexion.)

I'm no super-model, but I think vaseline, swimming (chlorine is a great astringent), and the occasional emotional break-down is a prettty good skin care regiment.

Just for today, I can take care of my skin.

I don’t care what anyone says. I feel the way I feel and I'm just going to let it (the Sadness) be (because, like flowers and grass, it wants to exist...).

Experience has taught me that talking myself out of feelings with smarmy affirmations about the goodness of the universe is about as helpful as telling a four-year-old that it's OK that his parents are getting a bitter divorce because his father drinks too much and his mother has deep unconscious rage because "God has a plan (...to make your life really #$* hard)!" or whatever platitude you have on your fridge underneath the apple pie magnet...

The point is this: affirmations are dangerous (maybe more dangerous than cigarettes...but there aren't any studies to prove it...yet!).

I have an intense bias against affirmations. The one time in my life that I gave someone the bird while driving came after a meditation in which I said "I'm willing to give and receive love..." while outstretching my arms 27 times (it proved more useful as an aerobic exercise than anything else)! It was just way too much positivity for me and I became a danger to society. Which is why I find most spiritual people (priests, yoga instructors, airy fairy hippies who sleep on mats) kind of frightening because while their anger (and they have to have some othewise why would they see the need for peace?) has to go someplace...we just don't know where...

The second point is this: I am sad.

No affirmations. No therapy session (um...actually, that's not true...not at this moment, though). I need to cry and then I need to meet my hug quota for the day (8-10...preferably 10) and then I need some coffee (it's been 8 days of abstinence!...freakin' bladder infection...)

Just for today, I accept my sadness.

I had a little meltdown on Saturday night when I tried to activate my new bank account and was told by The Machine that my account was closed. I am also having great difficulty doing things like spelling, laundry, and I get distracted by any project I undertake by The Dust [the dust hidden in the crevices of my lamp, behind my TV, and in my jewelry box (it must be gone!)]! (Not to mention, I've totally forgotten how to use brackets.) If my apartment isn't gleaming I fear that my world crumble into tiny bits of lost dreams. All because I MUST HAVE CONTROL OVER MY LIFE!

I was told last night that I need to feel the Overwhelm of a half-clean apartment and an unfinished life. These are "feelings from childhood" wanting release in some way that doesn't involve being a "HUMAN DOING."

I'm too tired to worry about being corny.

Just for today, I am allowed to have a meltdown.

It's not like I'm in a coma or anything, or like those guys from Crossfire (who were so checked out that they invited the magnificent bludgenor of BS, Jon Stewart, to bludgeon them on their home court). I'm not THAT DISCONNECTED! I am just learning there are more subtle ways to register pain and discomfort than a complete freezing of the bowels. And there are more appropriate ways to deal with FEELINGS and EMOTIONS, than getting drunk like a freshman in college (which I haven't done in at least a year, if not more....but I am willing to examine my own denial...).

But all this happens (as my sponsor says) because I avoid feeling The Feeling.

So, this is what happens. I have some thought or experience, like, say I am going to take greater risks in my life because I am growed up, and it's not really appropriate to raise a family in a studio apartment (albeit a very, very big studio apartment). I mean, it could be cozy at first, but then when my son is 15 and wants to invite his friends over for oreos and pornos...it's just not going to really work (please note: I would commit matricide, before I let my son bring porn into my house...note to self: cheap jokes > honesty).

ANYWAY, so all I have to do is THINK about taking greater risks with my career and the JUST THE THOUGHT OF CHANGE sends me onto an emotional precipice below which is nothing more than a vaccum filled void (which is so many negatives it actually should add up to something...but it's something scary and lonely). AND THEN, I start to feel that if I don't wash my bathroom mat with bleach in the next 24 hours, surely the engine of government, commerce, and society will come to a complete halt. And not only that, but I won't have enough money to buy deoderant, or paper towels, or DSL, or any of the crap that hooks me into the world, and our crap-filled consumer society. WHICH WILL THEN ostricized from THE LOVE available to all...but me. It won't be available to me because I'm in the vacuum filled void feeling alone, lonely, and scared. And that's really the only way I can describe The Feeling.

Just for today, I can feel my feelings.

I've got to be honest. I feel like I'm writing for the electrical currents of spam that have been invading my comments like the foot fungus I got in the 10th grade. So, I'd like to send a big "Hello" to Gay Porn and Debt Consolidation before I go further into the depths of my comforting self-pity. I know the world doesn't need any more bitterness, but it's just SO FUN to reflect on the nature of my pain and isolation. It's almost as fun as deleting comments from my good friend, Online Casino, and the truck load of spam I receive in my six-year-old yahoo account. At this point, I may as well spam some sky writing of my own e-mail to porn companies and faux pharmaceutical companies across cyber space. Just TAKE IT, already! Just unload all those desensitizing e-mails that you KNOW some lonely soul will buy to numb out the pain he feel because his mom never saw that he really was born to play the flute in a Gregorian choir (which, I know, doesn't exist...which is probably why he's depressed). I can't fight it anymore. The creepos win. I stand (or sit) defeated.

Just for today, I can take comfort in my bitterness.

The other night my boyfriend and I got in a giant fight. It's all settled down (so settled, in fact, that he had totally forgotten about it today until I reminded him).

Basically, what happened, in an nut, is that I did something that triggered his triggers (without knowing it), and then he triggered mine, which created a trigger session, which led to simultaneous shame spirals and mutual shaming, which resulted in more triggering... And then I got so angry I couldn't see straight, but he kept wanting to talk, and so I did the unthinkable and I EXPRESSED MY ANGER!! I used the F word and everything. And, you know what? It felt really great. And, you know what else? He got the message. And you know what else? I think I'm going to start getting angry more often in life. It's a lot more fun than imploding and it makes my skin look better.

Just for today, I can get angry.

There is a great chasm of hopelessness that I am trying NOT to dive into because it's self-indulgent (so I'm told) to feel self-pity when there is (so I'm told) so much to be grateful for. It's an insult to God who (I am told) exists. But that's the Christian world where the acceptance of diversity of emotion and experience is a threatening concept and I try to live in the land of truth, also known as "I feel...when you..." statements.

But my boyfriend and I are so haggard from rip roaring through the bloody gates of relationship hell that at about right now it feels like maybe the chains of religion might actually be a substantial way to hold it all together. I'm also really feeling like maybe I got shafted big time in the lottery for the tickets for the chutes that led to the birth canal in 1972. Cuz I don't know grey from black, or green from purple, I'm like emotionally color blind and anything anyone says or does makes me feel like I've been left in daycare too long.

Everything just feels hopeless. It sucks to have childhood trauma hounding you the rest of your life. I'd rather be simple, uninspired, and uncreative.

Just for today, everything feels quite sucky.

I exploded a snack pack of carrots and ranch dressing all over my car today. It happened just after I burst into an orgy of tears. It was a moment in time when I thought that, surely, there is no God. It was then that my cell phone rang. As I struggled to drive, cry, and find my cell phone, I kept coming across clumps of ranch dressing all over; on the steering wheel, my phone, pants, dash board (there was quite a bit of ranch dressing stuffed into that snack pack.) I think for a minute I forgot I was driving. My mom was on the line and as I tried to talk to her through my ranch dressing tears she kept saying, "Pull over! Pull over!" As I wiped ranch dressing off my face I kept telling her, "I'm almost there!" (which was a total lie). How I did not get into an accident is proof that there must be some kind of God.

I told the story to my friend Nancy and she told me about the time her diet Pepsi fell on the floor in her husband's office and got punctured, prompting it to turn into a Pepsi sprinkler system on hyper-drive. There are still Pepsi dots on the ceiling.

Just for today, I accept and embrace the joy and discomfort of humanity.

I've been driven to distraction lately by my powerful, yet ridiculous, fears. I know I should be worried about the latest hysteria shoved down my throat by the media [Note: I think it's high time the American people all voted on one thing to be afraid of and stuck to it. Natural disasters, terrorism, birds with colds....it's just too much to keep track of! At least the cold war spanned a solid decade. I'm still catching up to the fear of the government's lame ass response in the event of an earthquake...but that's so September 2005]. And then there are always the old reliable fears, like, cancer, heart disease, and dying alone in my apartment with my three-legged cat.

While these fears would make rational sense for most members of our increasingly fearful society, my fears, while powerful, are far more archaic and petty. I'm afraid that Target is going to run out of stock of Aveeno skin brightening face cream lotion and then I'll have to spend $2.00 more to buy it at Sav-on. I'm afraid that I'll never feel well dressed at a yoga class in LA (and that may be one I have to live with). I'm afraid that I'll never be able to say "No," to the opportunity to watch an airing of "Footloose" that begins at 1:00 AM (and that goes for "Sixteen Candles," "Grease," and "Top Gun") and because of this weakness I'll never work a real job again. I'm afraid that without a real job, I'll sit in my apartment and write my blog while getting high on coffee flavored soy milk from TJ's (my new crack) until I run out of my money, food, and then die (most of my fears end up at this point). I'm afraid that I'll never walk out of a nail salon with the polish still intact (I've had manicurists follow me to my car with polish and alcohol). I'm afraid that my attention span will become so frayed that I'll actually have to learn how to read again.

The list goes on...and, yet, none of them are worthy of headlines.

Just for today, I can accept my irrational fears.

I've just always wanted to say that. But now, I think I want to tatoo it on my forehead. Not to be judgemental (what am I saying?...of course I'm being judgemental....why bother offering an opinion if not to judge others and feel superior?...boy, I sure can lie), but there are SOME PEOPLE who don't care to keep it quite so real. I've always been wary of calling people shallow due purely to vanity. In my experience, people who criticize LA people for being self-absorbed have struck me as equally guilty of that character flaw. But at risk of being called a hypocrite, I have to say that I just can't keep up with polite relationships anymore. I don't know if I'm just too old to keep it fake, or too tired, but it's gotten to the point where honesty is starting to projectile vomit out of me and if I can't be real with someone I can't really be with them at all. The upside of having less people around me is that those who do stick around aren't the slightest bit draining. In fact, they lift me up because they know where I'm at and who I am. And if someone doesn't like me, I take it as a blessing.

Just for today, I'm becoming more real.

Tonight my "boss" had me take a personality test and then proceeded to show me how the results point to my excessive co-dependency. Since we're both working at 10:00 pm at night (I'm not the only co-dependent), I had to admit that he has a point (albeit a sad one). I was so triggered by this realization that I decided to to shift into high-gear recovery right then by getting up and driving my ass home. Needless to say, I think he realized that I am of greater use to him in my co-dependent state (as have so many ex-boyfriends). I think Im growing out of the "I hope he's not mad" phase of my development. But I'd better still have a job tomorrow.

Just for today, I am co-dependent no mo'.

I just had a long talk with my father. I remember when my father was a traditional man. He did whatever he wanted and if anybody had a problem with it, they were in tough luck. Now he talks about "boundaries" and wants to listen to my problems. It's nice to have a parent who is evolving and working on himself...but a little strange at the same time.

Just for today, I can connect with my father.

Whenever I feel depressed the following lyrics run through my head like a tape. The following is the most poetic description of depression (or my experience of it) that I have ever read. They are from the song "After All" by Dar Williams.

"Well the whole truth
Is like the story of a wave unfurled
But I held the evil of the world
So I stopped the tide
Froze it up from inside

And it felt like a winter machine
That you go through and then
You catch your breath and winter starts again
And everyone else is spring bound

And when I chose to live
There was no joy - it's just a line I crossed
It wasn't worth the pain my death would cost
So I was not lost or found."

It gets very uplifting later, but today I wasn't thinking about that part (it would have made me puke). I was too lost in a "winter machine" of my own creation, an empty vacuous place where I was neither "lost nor found" (can you tell I was an English major? this is exactly how I wrote papers, extracting specific phrases and words...god, I miss college...). I felt about as vibrant as the strip mall where I wandered around during my lunch break in an effort to shake myself out of my funk (big mistake). There's nothing like the site of Panda, Rubio's, and Baja to validate the sense of soulessness in America. (Warning: pretentious English major-like prose to follow...)I had no choice but to float through the motions, alive in the most pedestrian way (are you still with me?), a fellow zombie who inhabits The Gap and consumes the blood of the earth in the form of Calvin Klein underwear and cases of bottled water (it was so freakin' hot today that fear of global warming temporarily got my blood flowing).

After a presciption of yoga, therapy, and, conversation with friend, I felt better.

Just for today, I can accept depression.

I just spoke to a friend and told her that I lost my check book last night.

"Didn't you lose it last week?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah...no, that was my wallet...I found that."

Whoops...I had forgotten to do the friend rotation on this week's psychodrama. It's fine to have a psychodrama, I just need to relay the facts out over disparate relationships so that nobody discovers the true nature of my insanity (unless they read my blog).

Last month I wrote an email to a person I was interested in contacting about redesigning my website (finally...I know). The subject line read:

"Hey, Chris...It's Chris, Chris' friend!" (I'm not making this up...I am truly losing it).

I was taught early on not to drag everyone into my problems, but what I'm realizing is that they're getting harder to hide. I mean it's not like I have an excuse or anything. I don't do drugs, I have a glass of wine or two about once a month, and I spend hours in yoga staying connected to my breathe...could it be the coffee (it's pretty damn strong)?

Growing up, I was frequently the kid left standing there when all the other kids' parents had picked them up. My father would arrive in a panic, totally having forgotten that it was his day, or a certain time. I can't say today that I couldn't see myself doing the same thing if I had kids (maybe that's why I don't). Some people contend with the war, famine, racism, violence, and betrayal...mine is the more elusive and chronic problem of disengaging from the essential act of living.

Just for today, I accept that I'm a space case.

I once read that certain Native American cultures believe there is no distinction between our dreaming and waking lives in regards to the spiritual challenges they present. I don't know about anybody else, but when I wake up I usually have to make a quick check list of where I am, what age, and my current circumstances because I am so steeped in dreamland. The buzzer sounds (or, more often, the garbage truck), my eyelids flicker and I think "renter, 35, gainfully employed, in therapy, single, college graduate, Tuesday, mild depression...how many more seconds till coffee?" On most occasions I am relieved and grateful that, no, I am not a college senior who forgot to study for her final (so cliche...and, yet, so chronic). Other times I am slightly spooked by the recollection of an encounter with someone who has long since been deceased. I've never been one for the whole teeth falling out thing, but I hear that's a popular one. But I won't bore you with a litany of my top 10 (there's a whole high school series) because someone once said that listening to someone's dreams is about as engrossing as being on the receiving end of someone's drug trip experience. Unless you're Salvador Dali or a Freudian shrink (which mine happens to be...good thing I remember my dreams or I don't know what we'd talk about), nobody's interested. However, I will say, that I frequently wake up and don't know how old I am (which is most likely another issue altogether).

So, before I get too boring, I just want to say that in my awesome years (as I will heretofore refer to my mid-30's), I more and more think my dreams are my instincts lighting the way to the realities of my actual 3D life. Because DeNial isn't just a river in Egypt and runs so deep and pervasively in my day to day life, I believe there are many truths that remain hidden or cloaked behind my prejudices, fears, and taboos (yes, I have read Thomas Moore's "Care of the Soul").

Just for today, I value my dream life.

Yesterday, I had a long overdue meltdown that inspired a great many phone calls to people who haven't heard me cry on the phone in a long time (I've been busy...it takes energy to have a breakdown). Not to mention all the downloading of my interior monologue at inappropriate times and places (Evil Flash Programmer's desk). Yet, another good reason why I shouldn't work late on Fridays, after a certain point I just can't control the edit function that helps me preserve the casual cool image. It's all good now, just a not-so-gentle reminder from the universe that I can't expect to always be strong and mature and beyond human needs for things like love, appreciation, and acknowledgement. Sometimes I need to permission to not have my shit together and still be loved...(not that I'm the poster child for functionality, but I do have a very well organized closet...).

Anyway, post-meltdown is always a relaxing time (I used to have them all the time...I think I'm just pressed for time these days) and I'm feeling the love and good vibes with the people who listen to all my crap (what's up with this swearing?...) including (but not limited to) Evil Flash Programmer, Mojo Rising, Hot Gay Boyfriend, Fabulous Friend #1, 2, and 3, little sister, and, MOST IMPORTANTLY...(guess?) yes, it's you, mom!

Just for today, I can have a meltdown.

My battery died last night at 2:00 am while my friend and I sat in my car and bonded over our relationships with men. I know I need to get a new one (a battery, that is), but I think I just find the experience of the AAA guy arriving on schedule extremely gratifying. Where else am I going to experience that as many times as I want for $60 a year?!

I would write more about the men in my life, but I'm trying to stay away from using my blog to revel in Bridget-Jones-style patheticness. I'm tired of having my writing compared to that of women who hate themselves. Still, what's so funny about positivity? Surely it's not as powerful as the pain that binds us all in this terrorist-laden, commitment-phobic, paranoid, microwaved world (see what I mean?).

While walking to the dentist the other day (speaking of pain) I started to think about the purpose of human suffering and came to the depressing conclusion that if it weren't for suffering and humanity, and the needs these conditions create, people would surely never leave their apartments or stop watching cable (I cancelled mine, but I do miss the Sopranos). I probably would never blog, dance salsa, build relationships, or feel so strongly about the AAA guy (whoever he may be).

My dentist appointment was delayed because a girl chipped her tooth at a graduation party. Her mother sat next to me in the waiting room and spoke to me about how she was planning on suing the parents who threw the party for not cleaning up the drink that a 17-year-old spilled on the floor, thus, creating the circumstances for her (probably drunk) daughter to slip and chip her tooth. She went on to tell me about how home owners are responsible for all personal injuries that happen on their property, even if the person is breaking in (hey, don't give me any ideas). I didn't really know what to say because it seemed to justify a depressing vision of isolated nuclear family units living in fear and suspicion of one another in an increasingly heartless society. I didn't want to shame her for appearing to be an unforgiving Brentwood mom (because she seemed nice), but what came out was:

"Gee, kind of makes you never want to invite anybody over."

Silence ensued as I did a sort of slow head rotation back to my People magazine. I'm not saying this lady needs to suffer anymore (I mean he daughter chipped her tooth for Godsakes!), but give the parents who invited her daughter to their party a break.

Just for today, I can embrace my humanity and get a new car battery.

Yes, I know. I've relinquished my "attitude of gratitude" for the familiar experience of feeling victimized by the life I've unconsciously co-created (damn New Age philosophy).

Am wondering if my marital status would be different if I were more desperate. If I really felt that the single life wasn't worth living I might be more motivated to do things like raise children and be a "wife," and maybe then I would meet someone "appropriate" (i.e., someone willing to have a meal and see a movie)...if not equally desperate.

My sister thinks that all she has to offer a relationship is her good taste (she's wrong...not about the good taste part). I don't know what I have...faith in a soul mate connection? And, really, what use is that? A good mother affects the future generation. All a good soul mate can do is empathize with your bad childhood and agree that Gonzo was an underrated muppet...

Things did pick up this afternoon when Super Evil Flash Programmer (he's been promoted) told us about the time he attempted to say something in Portugese that he learned from his Brazilian Wife to Baked Goods (he likes cupcakes A LOT). However, SEFP "accidentally" ended up asking Baked Goods to have sex with him in the most vulgar way possible...(hmmmm...are there really any accidents?).

Just for today, I'm still not happy...but am cool with that.

Today, my friend Professional Writer came by Coffee Shop Land and we talked about the Biological Clock Panic. I told her that even though it's totally appropriate, I don't have the energy for a BCP at this juncture. She, however, is exploring options such as freezing her eggs, having a child with her Fabulous Gay Couple Friends, or adopting. Good thing I have friends like her to do all the research that I don't have the energy to do.

Just for today, I can talk to my friend about my biological clock.

I walked into Coffee Shop Land in the worst mood ever. My anti-bacterial hand stuff exploded in my glove compartment, I got a discount coupon on my EZ lube oil change a day after paying full price for it, and I'm on a period (sorry, but this blog is not for the faint of heart...). Oh, not to mention that the democratic party is imploding, the world is dying, and, McKain is going to get elected, reverse Roe v. Wade, thus, bringing this country closer to a third world status.

Anyway, so here I am trying to work, feeling depressed, and I glanced up and saw some Creepy Guy staring at me who looks identical to another Creepy Guy that I usually try to avoid (I meet all kinds of Creeps here in Coffee Shop Land...as well, as Very Nice People, so that's why I keep coming). And so I see this Creepy Guy Look-alike, and I wave and smile. Why? Because when I'm feeling blue, my defenses are down and, if you're a Creepy Guy, such is the optimal time for approaching me as my self-esteem will not allow me to give you the Go Away Smile that protects me and allows me to not waste my time talking to strange men about the housing market. So, here I am waving new creeps into my life, as I sink into my Why Did I Pay Full Price For My Oil Change? Depression, and wondering if the world's ecosystem will stay functional long enough for me to see my unborn children play with a frog.

I know, I know...I'm not in a wheel chair, my family is all healthy and alive, and I was able to buy coffee and tortilla soup. But if I focused on gratitude everyday, I would have little to write about in my blog and then text link ads wouldn't be sending me a check for $30 (which is more than the $2.50 I made from Google in three years...). And since I've gone so far down the self-pity trail, might I add that my mom HATES IT when I write my Woe Is Me blogs. Well, I'm not the same kid who believed in Santa Claus, and memorized Catholic school prayers, and thought that everything my mom said was God's word (which doesn't mean I don't love you, Mom).

Just for today, I'm in a bad mood.

Between, yet, more news about cyclones, earthquakes, a collapsing Democratic party, not to mention the prospect of going back to work (yes, I got a job) combined with the effects of caffeine over-saturation (to make up a redundant grammatically degenerative word), today I decided to forsake my compulsive American work ethic and take my tired ass out on an Artist Date at the Getty.

What I like about the Getty is that it's on a hill, and it allows me to look over Los Angeles and, thus, put all the petty little problems sprawled out below into better perspective. I also like the tram. Oh, and the art is ok, too...

After wandering around the impressionist, and the depressing California Video exhibit (why is video art always dark and cryptic?), I thought, "Fuck it! Who needs art when it's 90 degrees out and I'm surrounded by fountains?" And so I sprawled out next to the southernmost fountain and decided to work on my tan while I closed my eyes and imagined that I was at a spa next to an infiniti pool. The blindingly white slabs made the sun extra strong and helped create the resort effect. Not bad for $8.

Afterwards, I went to the garden. This is my tribute to Georgia O'Keefe.

Just for today, I can get out of my funk at the Getty.

I'm feeling cynical these days....and it's not just because I went back to work for The Man (although, that's part of it).

While I forage for dollars (that are steadily decreasing in value) in the wild jungles of Corporate America, I'm getting sent Internet dating site emails that think I'm a man (don't even remember signing up), losing the last shred of faith in the democratic process (and am pretty sure I'm done with the Democratic Party...I'm currently shopping for a 3rd party to join...anyone?), and acknowledging the depths of my attachment to Forever 21 (the store, that is).

And I'm one of the lucky ones. I just keep thinking of all the families who still can't pay their electric bills, let alone the gas needed to get to work, as they struggle to buy groceries. Forget about health care.

Everyplace I have worked in the private sphere people work ten hour days and any unwillingness to sacrifice evenings and weekends for the sake of The Project and The Client is considered disloyal at best and a sign of a faltering work ethic at worst.

I often look in my closet and wonder if there's blood on my hands for this kind of cuteness (I try to buy made in U.S.A.). Not to mention, what I will have to answer to my children (or people who could be my children) regarding the wars fought during the last 15 years.

This is the problem with healthy sobriety...it's just too much reality.

Just for today, I feel depressed about the state of the world.

I'm starting to like the fact that my blog is just a peep in the cacophony of sound and fury known as the blogosphere. I mean, really, besides a few dollars from Google Adwords, what are the benefits of fame when it comes to trying to be real. I say, trying, because I am desperately weak for approval - and, yet, loathe the need for it with the disdain raw food eaters have for McDonald's. If my goal in life is to keep it real, obscurity fits me better than my new Fry's boots (love having money to shop!).

Besides that fact that blogging has degenerated not only my writing skills, but my ability to stay focused on a single thought, it does allow me to vomit the frothy surface layer of my emotions and to mix metaphors in really bizarre ways for only $8 a month - which is pretty cheap therapy. Nobody said therapy had to be interesting, and since this blog is about the search God, love and a really good therapist, this entry is very on-theme.

With that said, I realized that now that I have a Real Job, I have also relinquished my right to act cute. And, it's not just because I'm getting older. There's just no way to tell a male what needs to git done in an assertive voice and seem non-threatening. They just don't go together, unless you're a kindergarten teacher.

Wow, I have a lot on my mind for a Saturday.

Just for today, I can keep my blog real and disorganized (and really disorganized).

Putting aside what this might mean about my emotional state, many thoughts these days seem to end with the word "motherfucker."

I'll be sitting behind a car at a right turn, and I'll think "Turn right...motherfucker!" Or, I'm trying to grind some coffee beans, and I'll think "Grind...motherfucker!" If I'm waiting for my pre-intel processor 4.5 year-old computer to load word, "Are you trying to kill me, motherfucker?!"

I'm going to temporarily blame the increase in my use of swear words in the interior monologue on unemployment. It's also making me tardy. I have nowhere I have to be, and, yet, am late everywhere I go. My Inner-Project Manager is in sleep-mode (though, let's face it, I've never been on time...).

Just for today, I can regress in middle-age.

One time, during a JV Basketball game in high school, one of our five person team got fouled out for calling the ref a "fucker." I'm sure he was, but you can't really play against a five-person team when you only have four players. I believe we were already down by God knows how many points. The ensuing humiliation went beyond reason, to the point where I hoped all those girls experienced the karmic repercussions of shoving our faces in deeper cow caca.

It hurts to lose. It really hurts to lose really bad. It really hurts to lose to guys with long hair.

Just for today, I feel your pain, Mexico.