I thought I was through with this writing experiment, just as I was through with the folly of summer. But it seems I can't get either out of my thoughts, and giving them up would be surrendering to the impending regression. Though I have not yet found the answers I seek, quitting now would be a mistake. It would be like abandoning my soul and becoming a zombie. I'm not sure that revelry and intoxication have made me any wiser, but they have made me more human and that humanity has led me closer to the truth than ever before.

First day back and it's same shit different day. Same shit different year, really. I sat through the first meeting despising just about everyone that opened their mouth. Every new development made me feel persecuted. Poor me, poor me. Why can't I get what I want? I'm not one to think that I'm so fucking special that I deserve something better. But I'm also not so fucking ordinary that I deserve this interminable sameness. I really thought things could go back to normal, but clearly they can't. I must continue to shake things up. I just don't know how yet.

I opened the refrigerator door at work and almost threw up. It had been abandoned all summer and someone must have turned the power off and then back on. There was mold everywhere....even on the ice in the freezer! Four cartons of Halo Farms juice were swelled and leaking. An inch-thick carpet of fuzz grew on top of the vegetable crisper. I set to work with bleach and a scrub brush, bitching the entire time. I vowed to never let anyone use it again. My friend tried to put two cans of Diet Coke in there. I told her no.

First Impressions: Billy talked about tree frogs for 20 minutes. Ricky said purple makes him laugh sometimes. Shamika locked herself in the bathroom. Jose tried to cover up the fact that he barely speaks English. Robin came in her Catholic school uniform. John didn't smile once all day. Dan said nothing embarrasses him. Bobby caught a moth and set it free. Davon left early for a meeting in Washington, D.C. Ann Marie said she had a brain operation last week. Brianna said if she gets stung by a bee she will die. I can‘t wait to learn more about them.

Today the weather is absolutely perfect and I know I should get out there and do something. The sun is shining. The foliage is green and lush. The temperature is a perfect 80 degrees. The cicadas are singing in the distance. So soon the season will change and I will surely long for this day. I should go for a hike or a motorcycle ride or take a dip in the pool while the water is still warm enough. But instead, I think I'll content myself with lying in the hammock and watching the clouds as they slowly roll by.

All week I wandered among the crowds and the chaos, trying to float gracefully in the river of glitz as if I belonged there. Each morning I awoke at dawn to watch the sun rise over the desert. Behind the thick glass of my high-rise hotel box, I heard it call to me. Only a few miles beyond the million-dollar man-made monstrosities, lay the simplest of ancient landscapes. I knew I wouldn't be satisfied until I stood at the base of those cliffs and felt the desert wind touch my face and that, once there, I wouldn't want to leave.

He used the "N" word again today. People just laughed and threw their hands in the air as if to say, "Yeah, we know he's a racist ass." But I could not let it slide by that easily. When I scolded the host for tolerating such rude behavior, he shook his head and replied, "I'm so used to it." But it angered me to sit there and watch a roomful of people accept such ignorance. I couldn't stand to be in that room another minute, so I left. When I see the "N"-sayer again, I will surely not stay silent.

My mother could be dead right now. She's probably not, but how would I know? I haven't spoken to her in years. Some people say that I should try to make amends, that I'll regret it when it's too late. But I'm not so sure that's true. There are some people in this world that are just so selfish and mean that you are entitled to banish them from your life. Yet sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't make one last attempt to bring peace to our tumultuous relationship. I would probably just get kicked in the teeth once again.

Things are much better since I found a new place to smoke. I no longer allow myself to get sucked into the black hole of negativity that is my colleague. Each day, twice a day, I found myself unwillingly listening to her bitch and complain about everything in the universe. After 183 days, I felt like strangling her. Each time I'd pass her in the hall and see that face creased with bitterness, I'd begin to feel her cloud of negativity invading me. Now I've found a place to stand quietly alone. If she asks, I'll tell her I quit.

How could I fucking lose it? I was being so careful. Too many drunken nights of wishing, I guess. Ya know how you scream at people in movies when they're being stupid? I feel like I'm trapped in one of those scenes right now. I was being so careful not to do such things. Yet still, I can't find it. Everything else has been erased. Burned! But I know I wouldn't dispose of that. Not voluntarily, at least. Yet still, I can't find it! What kind of idiot am I? A 2-by-3 scrap of paper. I hope it turns up.

"Dude, what are you doing?" I really wanted to know the story behind the well-dressed guy sitting on the curb in the strip-mall parking lot playing a guitar. I could see the black case sticking up from the back seat of the silver Volvo convertible with the ALSACE license plate. I sat in my car, sipping my chai latte, trying to hear what he was playing, but the nearby highway traffic made that impossible. Just as I looped around the large lot for better positioning, he got into the car with two suits. I guess he was just killing time.

"Regrettably I am at a verbal disadvantage and not much on dialogue," he wrote in a four and a half page letter that said nothing. If it was slightly wicked for her to read it aloud, it was utterly fiendish for us to tear it to shreds the way we did. Emotionally ludicrous and syntactically appalling, it seemed to go on for hours. We would have gone in search of red pens had its hilarity not drawn us in so entirely. The mockery crescendoed with an interpretive dance performance personifying his puerile sentiments. He was the laughingstock of the evening.

When making a decision, is it better to go with the heart or the mind? It seems they always have differing opinions. The mind probably knows better, but it has no qualms about the monotony of day to day routine and doesn't worry about missed opportunities. It is the heart that stirs us and cries for freedom. Yet it has some misgivings, too. Desire has led us down many a stray path with no regard for the consequences. When time is plentiful, we mull and mull. When time is short, we stay true to our nature, whatever that may be.

This must be depression. The weekend was a disappointment and another uneventful week is about to begin. I have absolutely nothing to look forward to. I understand now why people use the term "battling" when talking about depression, although at this moment I do not possess the energy to put up a fight. I would sooner lay down my paltry weapons and surrender to its subjugation. Taking a shower would be a start. A walk might help me to see the beauty of the world. But going back to bed would make it all go away for a little while.

A change of plans. It was sure to happen. I tried not to get my hopes up. I knew it was coming, really. I'm quite astute when it comes to the inevitable. Now all I have to do is convince myself that it's really for the better. That's the hard part. But after so many disappointments, you have no choice but to become adept at self-deception. It's not you, it's them. Something greater is coming down the line. It'll get better. I mean, how long can you feed yourself this bullshit before you have to admit you're a complete loser?

"The everything-but was so much better," she said, referring to the time in a relationship before intercourse is introduced. During that time a man is forced to explore the female body, searching for just the right spot to make her give in to her passion. What he doesn't realize is that this is the essence of the experience for a woman. Sure, he's read about it in magazines, but he doesn't really believe it. And once penetration has been achieved, he forgets about it entirely. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with a good shtupping, but the "everything-but", well...

My friends are all huggers. We decided that people are either huggers or not. As it turns out, they are and I am not. I've never been comfortable with the obligatory hug one gives when arriving and/or departing, but they've been trying to convert me, as they have others. It may be beginning to work. Saturday night, as guests were leaving the party, the hugging began. I wanted to hug Jeani goodbye, but she was surrounded by people I didn't know. Unsure of hugging etiquette in such a situation, I left her unhugged and felt a bit bad about it.

"We'll see," my mom used to say to me when I wanted something as a little girl. If I asked her when it would happen, she'd say, "Soon." I'm still not sure whether this technique was brilliant or cruel. Brilliant because it got me to stop annoying her. Cruel because it kept me waiting for something that was never going to happen. Why couldn't she just say no for once? Now I find myself forever caught in the murky abyss between optimism and realism. I can never tell when to keep trying and when to give up and move on.

I can't stay inside during this hurricane, can't stay pent up in fear. I have to venture out to experience the ominous dark tempest. Leaves fly in every direction. Branches creak overhead. Wispy dark clouds speed through the sky. The grass ripples in swirling waves. I am stirred by its power and awed by its unpredictable capability to bring sweeping changes. I look around me for things that may be different tomorrow. Soon the rain will come down and chase me inside, but until then, I will sit here and listen and feel and revere what's going on around me.

I burned my bush today. I didn't mean to, but I went to the tanning salon and accidentally fried my dumpling. I had a decent base tan from my summer days of sipping Margueritas by the pool. I went topless a few times, so my breasts weren't too surprised. Even my shiny white hiney saw a little action with my bikini bottom pulled tight between my cheeks. But the bush was totally unprepared for the barrage of UV rays that assaulted it. Were it not trimmed so neatly, I would have been okay. I guess it's boxers for me tonight.

An old-fashioned black-and-white pulled into the gas station. Through the back window, I could see spiky blonde hair. One officer got out and began pumping gas. The other made a bee-line for the restroom. Painted in large black letters on the front fender was TICONDEROGA. It seems I wasn't the only one curious about the story behind this stop. The attendants milled around the car, peeking at the prisoner in the back seat. He was kind of cute, like a surfer dude. The prisoner slept, or pretended to, avoiding the fishbowl effect. Within minutes they headed back toward the highway.

I have an odd theory that the problem with my generation began when the mosquito man came through town. We'd run screaming to our stingrays, hop on banana seats, and ride as fast as we could behind him in the glorious white mist. Our parents would just laugh and wave. "Don't follow too close," they'd holler, oblivious, as they were to most things, that there might be dangers lurking in the fog. We'd follow him, this poisonous pied piper, until our breath would give way. Laughing and coughing, we'd ride home and play kick the can until just after nightfall.

I often forget that she's not here anymore. I know that she has moved on, but I still get some sense of her being around. I keep thinking that I'll run into her in the hall and tell her a funny story. I suppose a part of her essence will always linger behind. Soon, I will be gone as well. I wonder if the place will seem strange without me. After all these years, I must have left my mark. There are always others to take our places, yet I like to think that in some ways, we are irreplaceable.

We told him that if he did 21 birthday shots we would all take our tops off. There was also talk of strip clubs and lap dances, but then again, isn't there always? Unfortunately, Isabel prevented the girls from attending the event. Still, he ended up sleeping on my couch. The girls begged be to "do something to him," but all I wanted to do was tuck the blanket under his chin. This week there are plans for another birthday. The talk has turned to dirty pinatas and nipple-dipping. Do you think we can get a raincheck on his birthday?

Calling out sick today marks a major change for me for several reasons. First, because I never do it. I really don't. Every year, I have perfect attendance, or close to it. I have one hundred and ninety-some odd sick days saved up, for god's sake. Second, I never really needed to before. Short of bronchitis or pneumonia, I drag my sorry ass in there and do my job like a martyr. But today is different. I'm different. Sure, I'm up, I'm awake, I'm alive. I could go to work today. But I choose not to. How cool is that?

The code of silence prohibits me from disclosing what happened at J-bird's birthday celebration last night. I wrote all about it when I came in late last night. Here's an excerpt: tonight I;ve seen more activon tnan I ever tnhougjt i would. f the coede of silence. no on e is going to read this anhwayl ; sje ,ammade oet quite abitl with everone i thingkl especillly kim.. Ik i thingkt his might be one 200 words i hae to miss. tooo guckeed mup way too fuckeed upl bedtime yuew uyes. goddnightl. Perhaps my best work to date. Ya think?

When it rains, it pours. It's a corny saying, but today, it's true. When things are bad, they're really bad. There seems to be no hope on the horizon. But when good things start happening, there's no stopping it. I feel almost unprepared for the happiness. There's even a part of me that's not sure if I deserve the good fortune. Last week, when I was bitching about how all my hard work never pays off , I surely believed I 'd earned it. Once I let go, it happened. Please tell me it's not one of those spiritual things.

Could it be that I'm actually too scared to go through with it? My heart has been in my throat for days now, waiting for news. I wish they would just tell me, it's going to happen tomorrow, so that I could stop fretting about it. The closer it gets, the more I question my judgment. The anxiety this is causing me is almost overwhelming. I can't make proper decisions in this state. A few weeks ago, when things were calm, I said I "can't not", that I would regret it forever if I didn't. Now I'm not so sure.

Still waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. What's it going to be? Yes or no? Stay or go? I still don't know. This indecision is killing me. Today, I'm ready to pack. Split. Hit the road. All doubts are gone. It's time to move on. I'm just waiting for the word. It's so frustrating, to have your future resting in someone else's hands. It's bullshit, really. I wish I could just do it right now. Take the bull by the mother fuckin' horns and finally get what I want out of life. I'm ready. Hurry up, before I change my mind again.

Well, this is the last day of the month, once again. Will I continue or have I learned enough from this writing experience? I guess I will decide that tomorrow. Either something will be burning to come out or it won't. Maybe I should just continue on my own. I don't think anybody reads this anyway, except maybe my friends. Why do I write anyway? I know I don't have a tremendous talent. Nor are my thoughts so deep as to inspire the masses. But every once in a while, my words capture a moment perfectly and it's mine forever.