There is no such thing as permanent satisfaction. By the time you get there, it lasts only a short while. Then you wonder, "Is this really what I wanted in the first place? Isn't there something more?" I used to think it was lack of maturity, but now that I'm halfway down the long road, I know it's not that simple. Human nature perhaps? Nah- too trite. For me I want it to be something more epistemological. Something soul-searching. Anything but plain old ordinary boredom. If that's all it is, I will have no excuse for doing what I want.

I woke up this morning with a tattoo on my ankle. Not a real tattoo. Just sloppy scribblings from a ball-point pen. I wanted to remember how funny it all was, but was fairly sure my memory would fail me the next day. So my friend wrote it all down. In code. It started at my ankle and extended up my leg- acronyms and catch phrases, even a drawing or two. My mind struggled to make the connections, but slowly, it all came back. It was nearly as funny as the night before. After a shower, it was mostly gone.

My friend just informed me that my "shut up and sit on it" had "finally cracked." I'm not sure what she meant, but I think it's a good thing. Yet still, when someone compliments you on a change for the better, doesn't it make you wonder if you weren't okay before? I read somewhere- or was it in a movie- that most people aren't really that interested in one another. If that's true, it's no wonder they're surprised when they notice something good. But if you really want to know "where I've been keeping" myself, I've been here all along.

My muses are a motley crew. Each one has her own mystery and strife. I'm drawn to the sweet complexity of their passions and pursuits. I could write about them every day, but fear it would displease them. Who am I to tell their savory secrets to the world? Yet still their tales harry me. I craft each vignette, trying to be vague, but they are too recognizable, too distinct. So I write their stories and tuck them away, out of respect for their privacy. I search my own soul for something interesting to say, but without them, I'm empty.

Twenty-four years is a long time to be good. Now that the perfect angel has fallen to earth, she is experiencing what it's like to be a mere mortal. It must be a relief, to let loose and be human- to feel the joy of recklessness, though sometimes she worries just how far she'll fall and who, if anyone, will be there to catch her. After all, a seraphic life is a solitary one, and she has not yet become adept at socializing. She can't imagine returning to her stringent ways, though she fears the consequence of a capricious existence.

After 58 years, they are still debating the efficacy of the bombs dropped on Japan. There are those who believe that America needlessly killed hundreds of thousands of innocent people and others who believe that Japan would not have surrendered without it. There are some who use the event to discredit current American intentions and some who focus on the horror in order to prevent future devastation. Growing up in the shadow of the Cold War, I learned to fear the bomb, but must confess that lately, the thought hasn't entered my mind. I'm glad that some people haven't forgotten.

Fuckin' Tupperware pissed me off tonight. I just wanted to put things away quickly. And they wanted to give me a hard time. First of all, nothing matches. There are square ones and rectangular ones and round ones. Not all of them are Tupperware*, you know. Some of them are Ziploc and some of them are Glad. Some are just leftovers from prepared supermarket dishes. But not one of the lids matches with a container. How can that be? Is there some correlation with the missing sock theory? Why can't I just put this food away and go to bed?

A Brief History of the Crapper. The Crapper is Jillian's shitty little guitar. On girls' guitar night, it's given to the person who arrives last or has the least playing experience. Jillian dated a guy named Michael, who worked at the Dollar Parlor in Beach Haven. She bought the guitar at some crap store so he could teach her to play. He dumped Jillian for her best friend. They got engaged, and he bought the dollar store. But two weeks before the wedding, he suddenly called it off. Jillian played shuffleboard with him last week. No one mentioned the guitar.

The politician is a strange and scary beast. Watching him on TV is like a surrealistic sideshow. In a barrelful of words, he tells us what we want to hear. Fabrications. Alterations. Justifications. One tidy bead of sweat forming on his brow as microphones, cameras, and lights attack his facade. He surreptitiously wipes it away as he strokes back a strand of hair gone awry. With perfect composure, he lies. We applaud and scream for more. With a smile and a wave he exits, carelessly tossing one last glance over his shoulder like spilled salt to ward off bad luck.

Life is all about being sentient and full of faults. About doing things all of a sudden, instead of thinking them through thoroughly. It's about screwing up your life so beautifully that you know it's for real. It's walking out into the morning dew with no regret for the night before. It's about screwing up time after time without losing hope. About filling up the room when you're there. Doing what you know you need to do to hold on to yourself even if you get lost somewhere along the way. Life is about friends and laughter and unexpected experiences.

Last night my friend screamed at me in a bar for answers. "Tell me!" she roared, only half laughing. I guess she figured since I was a bit older and she had gotten me drunk on Hoegarden, that I would have something profound to tell her. Of course I didn't. Rather than pretend that life's wondrous experiences had taught me more than they actually had, I passed on to her my own questions, leaving her more frustrated than before. At the end of the night, we stole a fancy glass from the bar, stuffing it into my tiny black purse.

Can't not. That's the phrase for today. Something you just can't pass up. No matter how bad an idea it might be. You have to do it. Surely people will understand. If you don't, you'll regret it. Rue the day, so to speak. Won't be able to live with yourself. You'll keep thinking how stupid you were not to. But you'll do it. You know you will. Don't even try to pretend you won't. It's a waste of energy. Better to just dive in. Head first. Fuck the consequences. You're gonna do what you want anyway. So just do it.

Last night, in a fit of boredom, I wrote that no matter what happens, it would be better than nothing happening at all. Today I find that there are more suicide bombings in the West Bank, two "Girls Gone Wild" are suing Snoop Dogg, a homosexual has been named bishop, Parisians are sizzling in a heat wave, a fire is ripping through Glacier Park, California broadcasters will not air Arnold Schwarzenegger movies for the next few months, and thousands of corpses are being disinterred to make way for the New Jersey Turnpike. I still wish something would happen to me.

I stopped at the gas station on the way home for a pack of smokes, my two big dogs in tow, behaving fairly well. A short Italian man dressed in white- a landscaper, maybe- asked me if the dogs would bite him. I told him no and he reached out a hand to pet them. Then he asked me if I would bite him. I thought, is this a concern or a request? Then I noticed a hickey on his neck. Apparently someone had already bitten him. Possibly the last girl he tried to pick up at a gas station.

Last night, while the girls and I drank wine and skinny-dipped in New Jersey, JillyB found herself climbing up through a sewer to escape an immobilized subway train in Manhattan. She called to assure us she was safe in an office building and that the good people of NYC had remained calm during the blackout. We, on the other hand, got a little out of control, as we tend to do on Guitar Night. We played only two songs before stripping off our clothes and diving in. In Central Park, the Indigo Girls played eight songs using a back-up generator.

Luis proposed to Danielle with her own ring. We came back from the beer stand to find them standing on our blanket, the only clear spot on an overcrowded concert lawn. They had only just met. Luis, a young man from Brazil, clung tightly to Danielle's hand as her friends desperately tried to pull her away. She said she would meet him later. I told Luis that if he let her go, he would never see her again. He took my advice and went off with her. Later I saw him alone. I guess things didn't work out for them.

I glanced over the median and noticed that the other side of the road was completely deserted, a strange occurrence for a major highway at 7 PM. Up ahead in the distance I saw flashing lights as traffic began to slow in the inevitable gaper delay. Making their way slowly down the long slope of an overpass were two police cars and a motorcycle, holding back an angry mass of creeping cars behind them. In front of them, a small, dirty black and white dog ran for his life. I hope he was able to escape from his harrowing predicament.

Lady Marmalade is a lime green 1978 Comet in original condition. When you sit in her paisley pleather all-in-one front seat, you sink so low you can hardly see over the dashboard. When you pop a cassette in, some old funk preferably, each bass note cracks loudly through the back speakers. Everywhere she goes, people either love her or laugh at her. She never goes unnoticed. People say she's a chick magnet, though I'm not really looking. This week, she will get me from here to there. I must say, I enjoy driving her more than I thought I would.

I forgot my wedding anniversary again. Three years now, and we haven't marked the occasion once. We always say we are not the kind of people who get caught up in conventional rituals, and for the most part, that is true. I don't expect flowers or candy or a diamond necklace or even an expensive dinner, for that matter. But I don't expect to be sitting here alone once again. I almost wish he hadn't reminded me, with a hug and a kiss on his way out the door. Then it would have just been another solitary night for me.

Janeen believes that polygamy is a viable option, at least with two girls and a guy. She says that while the guy is off doing his guy things, the girls could hang out together and keep each other company, thus releasing him from much of the emotional responsibility of a relationship. I asked her what she thought of a marriage between two guys and one girl. She said it would never work because they would either be too competitive with each other or would gang up on the girl with their macho beliefs. She would end up hating them both.

Florida officials are receiving death threats for the planned execution of a man who killed two people at an abortion clinic. Murder begets murder begets murder begets murder. But first you must decide what constitutes murder. Liberals defend the right to an abortion, yet oppose the death penalty. Conservatives advocate the right to life, yet believe people should be put to death for their crimes. In their quest for balance between freedom and order, both sides seem to make their own rules. But unless you've stood by the graveside or laid on the table, how do you know what's right?

Today I received a stranger's email by mistake. Nun sag ich es Dir endlich, auch wenn Du mir nicht zuhören willst. ICH LIEBE DICH- Habe nun auch das gemacht, was Du von mir immer wolltest : Deine Dora Translation? Now I say it to you finally, even if you do not want to listen to me. I LOVE YOU- Also that had made now, what you always wanted of me: Your Dora Attached was a link to a picture of a bikini-clad buxom blonde kneeling seductively in front of a fireplace. I hope the message also reached its intended recipient.

Sometimes I'm just a gullible ass who'll believe almost anything. Later I tell myself that I'm really much smarter than that. But sometimes I forget to don my cloak of suspicion and cynicism, leaving myself open to attack. Still, it's too unpleasant to live life under the weight of wariness. I want to believe that things can just happen randomly, without malicious intent. I'm much too old to feign naiveté, but too young to become a slave to skepticism. Therefore, I must accept the fact that, from time to time, I will end up looking like a great big ass.

Nothing has happened yet. Should I even try to write? I've barely touched my coffee. Checked my email, of course. Nothing still. Am I a morning writer or a night writer? I'm not sure yet. Responsible me says do it now. But responsible me is dreadfully boring and has very little recollection of the tumultuous goings-on that transpired last night. That would be the other me. Late night, half-drunk, close to desperate. I think that me has more interesting things to say. I look at my long list of things to do today. I put "write" on the last line.

Only one more week until I head back to reality. Usually I'm eager by this time, but the numbing effects of a long, soul-searching summer and the anticipation of another year much like the last have me in the doldrums. I thought there would be revelations. I thought there would be changes. Yet everything is just the same as it was. Except me, that is. I can no longer pretend that the regularity and security are comforting. I want something different, but I'm worn-out trying to make it happen. It seems I'll just have to suck it up and persevere.

When you go to class, or a 3-day conference, everyone always sits in the same seats. Every day. Same seats. Sometimes I come in early and sit somewhere different. People get pissed. They feel flustered- perhaps even invaded. As if their whole plan had been ruined. I feel bad, and don't do it the next day. Now I'm the uncomfortable one- feeling confined. It's not so bad when there are extra seats. That way I can change seats daily without bothering anyone else. "Oh, you're back there today," they comment with amusement. As long as you're not in my seat.

It started with- That drummer can pound on me anyday- and deteriorated into the writing of a note. The front said: Little Drummer Boy- Cum they told me... Pa rump pa pum pum. The inside read: Dear Drummer, I am obsessed with you. Please come to my table. I must know all there is to know about you. The holes in your shirt lead to my dreams of stripping you down and having my way with you. I'm keeping it loose tonight....Love J9. P.S. You got me wide open! We wisely decided it was best not to deliver the note.

Yesterday the festival of Kumbh Mela brought death instead of absolution. As the sun, the moon, and Jupiter aligned, thirty-three people died in a stampede to bathe in the waters of India's Godavari River. Though I always find such religious devotion to be puzzling, I was further perplexed to discover that twenty-nine of ill-fated victims were women. Could it be that the women of India are more penitent than the men? Maybe they are compelled to feel more guilt for their transgressions. I only hope that they were absolved of their sins, even if they never reached the holy water.

Last night we couldn't get J.B. off the scooter. She rode that thing like it was her JOB! She took off down the driveway, quickly hitting the maximum speed of 25 mph. She looked perfect with her white capris, her sun-kissed cheeks, silk scarf tied in her hair- ends streaming in the wind, foot pumping with exhilaration. Her hooting could be heard over the weed-whacker whine of the engine. All night long she kept begging for rides. When someone else would start it up, she'd yell, "Who's on my scooter!??!" After dark, she took it for one last joy ride.

Words of Wisdom (or foolishness) from the last night of Summer Break ‘03. J-Bird says- Apparently I suck at singing Rapper's Delight. I'm so sorry. JB says K is the orphan whore of godless nights. She is too damn sexy. C says- Wiping your chump off regularly allows you to live longer. J9 says- I am not singing Oops! I Did It Again. My arm hairs are singed! JC says- I have been waiting for the Dirty Dancing lift all my life. M says- You're embarrassing me, after she free-styles It Wasn't Me. A perfect ending to a S.W.O.C. summer.

I'm through with this summer. Yes, it was a good time, but sometimes it was a little out of control. More than sometimes and more than a little. Maybe things should go back to normal now. I can't continue to live in madness and act like a normal person. Of all the months to chose to document the events of my life, I had to pick this one. Any other month would have been...I went to work, I came home, I made dinner, I went to bed. But this month was different. This summer was different. And now it's done.