Today begins a thirty-day journey to better writing. Unlike most of the writers who have the discipline to dedicate 100 words every day, I am no lover of writing. Will this teach me something? I am almost sure of it, but my impatience makes it difficult to start without having that something to begin with. I want it all and I want it now and that way of thinking has to go. My all or nothing approach has created a great deal of harm and pain, but today I choose to channel my efforts toward something greater. You will see.

A very brain-fried, track-marked, post-hooker Andrew came back from California today to once again take over my friend, to steal her away and suck her dry. He doesn't have many options now. This was treatment center number forty-eight, and it was chrystal meth that became his drug of choice this time, rather than the normal cravings for crack. Erin, my dear friend, is the only one who will still "help" him. Soon he will be missing again for three, maybe four days until he hits bottom in a crack house somewhere, and Erin will be gone picking up the pieces.

Three people died today in a fatal car accident. Two were not wearing seat belts and were ejected from their vehicles. The other, with her seatbelt on, remained in the car and was crushed to death. However, a man in a third vehicle involved was said to have survived because he was securely strapped in by the same device that became a deathtrap to one woman. Driving itself is a health hazard, no matter how safe a driver is. I take for granted every day the fact that later could be my last drive home, with a seatbelt or without.

There exists a strong, warm energy moving through my being today. It moves as a spirit through the trees, the mountains, the rivers, and it connects me with the world and with nature. Today I recognize it and surrender to it. Living by spiritual principles allows me to fearlessly express my true, unique self. I continue to strive for Greatness, because the high that I experience on days like today is far better than any chemical high that I have ever felt. With a clear, sober mind, God grants me ultimate happiness, contentment, and serenity and that is worth everything.

My house smells like urine. I open the front door and dread moving forward to the inside. The fumes are overwhelming. The cat is obviously sick again. I go inside and find that he's sprayed the grates in front of the air conditioner filter. So, the putrid smell has been circulating throughout the entire house all day long. Apparently he's spraying to let me know that something is wrong with him. What an ingenious way to get my attention! Now, I'll be searching the house daily for his chosen spot of the day while waiting for the antibiotics to kick-in.

I am overcome by the defects of my body. Dimples and soft pockets of fat cover my thighs, stomach, and arms, and in depression, I eat more. I am embarrassed for my boyfriend to see me today. My body was unfit to carry the fetus, or that is how I feel about it now. My doctor removed a baby three months and seven days ago from my right tube where he or she was stuck, and my body has been ugly to me since I awoke. How do I recover from unwillingly destroying a developing life by my body's defect?

A "gay-only" high school is opening in New York. Excuse me? This is segregation in its most blatant form! Do homosexuals, bisexuals, and transgender students need a different learning environment and different learning tools as do the mentally challenged. Do they need to take Gay Math and Gay English? And should 15, 14, and even 13 year-olds be tasked to decide what their sexual orientation is to be? At such a confusing time in an individual's life, as a young teenager, is it really possible for most homosexuals to even "come out of the closet" at any younger than 16?

It is ironic that the soldiers who so bravely "defend our country" are among those that support President Bush still today. They've been sent overseas, away from friends and family for an undefined period of time, and they continue to fight a war that will never be won, and they all know this fact. Yet, they continually back what Bush is doing and support him more than those US citizens that are sitting at home watching the demolition and devastation on television. Civilians are turning on the President, but soldiers with the most reason for protest are still expressing advocation.

I live inside of a self-centered womb that I've built around myself. In times of need, my nature is to retreat far into myself before asking for help. I am conscious only of my own thoughts, feelings, needs, and pains. The only way for me to receive succor is to look outside of myself for inspiration, usually through a spiritual role model who offers guidance through their own faith, love, hope, strength, and courage. Another's bright spirit is sometimes the only thing that will bring some light into my darkness, until I learn to live looking outward rather than inward.

A heated discussion arose last night during what began as pleasant dinner conversation with my father. A Vietnam Veteran and loyal patriot, he was quite offended by my view about his and other civilian support of the troops in Iraq, which they perceive as strong. I close my eyes, putting myself in a soldier's shoes. Do I really feel support from the American people when they are not supporting my war effort, or my President? I receive support as a soldier at war, but the entirety of what I live for today is wrong and unjustified by most civilian opinion.

Today marks the death of approximately 3000 American citizens, the birth of new anger, bereavement, and pain, the death of a landmark of two famous buildings, the birth of an empty memorial that never should have been, the death of faith for reliance on God to keep loved ones safe from harm, the birth of newly found faith to get through the most difficult time of our lives, the death of a date that would have normally passed by without recognition, the birth of the saddest day and most sorrowful memory of American history that will never, never be forgotten.

It started five years ago when my high school boyfriend left. This guy had never even tasted beer. And then there was me, the blossoming alcoholic. I began to fall victim to my destiny, a love affair with addiction. I started to drink regularly and heavily, until I discovered the pills. In no time, I was on the highway to hell and realized I had to have the little pills to live without hating life. Soon, I realized that I hated life with or without the chemicals, and I was forced to die or find a new design for living.

Two years and twenty-eight days have passed since that last morning of unspeakable hell. I had been up for a couple of days. Had a big night planned, but as usual, I didn't leave the solitude of my apartment. My "friends" had come and left. My mom called at 7:30am to chew me out and for some reason, this time I listened. She knew what was happening to me. I found myself completely alone, mentally and emotionally bankrupt. That conversation was the beginning of a turn-around that got me to ask for help that was what ultimately saved my ass.

Last night's viewing of "Matchstick Men" leaves me once again pondering whether my need for medication is psychological or a real uncontrollable chemical imbalance. Because of my history of chemical abuse, I will suffer from chronic depression probably for the rest of my life. It could be worse. Forty milligrams of Prozac a day and I'm good to go. Still, I always wonder how much affect the meds do have, and how much of it is actually psychological. Pop a pill in my mouth and I can expect it to make me feel better. Just like the old days. Ironic.

Yoko's at 8:30pm for dinner tonight. Order drinks and check off our pleasures, then submit our order, which is probably too much as usual. Enjoy crisp ginger salad while waiting for sushi to be prepared. Sushi arrives. Mix a big, green wad of wasabi into soy sauce. Start with roe, by myself since I am the only one who can stomach it. Oops, too much wasabi in that bite. I feel my sinuses open up nicely as my eyes begin to water and my nose starts to burn, then run. This part makes sushi the food that I live for.

From the days of "Three's Company" to his most recent hit family sitcom, "8 Simple Rules", John Ritter brought laughter into the homes of millions. He was still young and full of life, still sporting that characteristic smile that lit up a room, or a set. There are few actors that I have watched who are as skilled in developing such a sense of immediate intimacy with their audience. It was always obvious John intended for his optimistic attitude to rub off on those around him, and it is people like him that I mold my own life after today.

This has been a week of little to no sleep. Each night has been drawn out with a restlessness that breaks my serenity for the following day. I lay in bed struggling to get comfortable, hastily flipping from one side to the other, tearing the blankets off of myself, only to reach for cover again only minutes later. Destiny scratches herself in the other room, causing the tags on her collar to jingle incessantly. I hear a click as the air conditioner turns on, and I feel relieved for the cool air that will hopefully settle my body a bit.

Just let her die. Let her be in peace. What sort of life is it to be in a vegetable-state for thirteen years? She cannot walk, eat, or bathe herself. Even having someone to help her with these things, she is unable to communicate with other human beings like her husband and her family. Hopefully, she wouldn't have married a man who she could not trust to make a decision for her in time of serious illness. She will starve to death without a feeding tube. Only twenty-seven days until it will begin, without the selfish appeal of her parents.

I hated football when I was a little kid. Actually, I loathed it. When the season would begin, it was time to kiss Sunday cartoons goodbye, as well as my father for the day. It was forbidden to play in the living room because the game (any game) was on. The sound of the TV blaring a football game with shouting fans and obnoxious announcers, as well as my father's own shouting at every play, absolutely detested me. This season, I've discovered my new boyfriend has the same dumb-guy obsession. Oh, well. If you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?

My puppy is sick. He won't get up and come out of his crate when I call his name, so I crawl inside to him. I lay down inside with my head on his soft, brown belly and listen to the relentless gurgling. His nose feels warm but wet, so I don't worry too much. It sounds like he's going be sick, on one end of his body or the other. Only time will tell. I stay cuddled up with him until we both fall asleep. If love could cure his ailment, he would be healthy again in no time.

Fear has consumed me once again. My recent lack of spiritual maintenance has me looking to worldly things for approval, rather than to my own Higher Power, which I choose to call God, only for lack of a better word. I've returned to my old pattern of self-centeredness in my relationships, looking for what I can get out of them rather than what I am putting in. I would say that I haven't been in tune with God, but that would be limiting His power. When I ask for his help, I acknowledge his power and gain contentment and serenity.

I found my dream apartment. It is small, with three tiny rooms, plus a cramped kitchen and bathroom. The pantry is a mere 3 inches deep, enough to hold a can of tomato paste on the shell, but not deep enough for a can of whole stewed tomatoes. There are window shakers in two of the rooms rather than having central heat and air. Iron fire escapes run along the 75 year-old three-story building, with one right outside of my third-story window. It's in the heart of Old Hyde Park, but the rent is dirt-cheap. I move in three weeks.

"I came into this world, not chiefly to make this a good place to live in, but to live in it, be it good or bad." --Thoreau

I thought it was my responsibility to change the world myself, and I was squashed by defeat. I have learned instead that it is only my responsibility to live in this world and do the best that I can myself to achieve a balance amoung the forces that pull on me: power, love, responsibility, pleasure. Today, I respond to all of them, condemn none of them, but enslave myself to none of them.

Why should I be responsible for cleaning up the coffee that everyone leaves behind? I don't even drink the cheap Maxwell House decaf, but those that drink it don't seem to be competent enough to clean up when they are finished drinking the nasty shit. Maybe they think the decanters clean themselves. I wish for one day when I could allow myself to leave the coffee on when I leave this hell hole, to let one of the lazy decaf drinkers to find it just the way they left it. Sometimes being spiritual is a real pain in the ass.

I woke up in a panic, feeling out-of-place and discombobulated. As my senses began to return, I noticed my body felt clammy and moist, and my face was sticking to the satiny pillow. My eyes were trying hard to focus in the morbid dark, but without contacts in, I couldn't even make out the numbers on the alarm clock. Releasing a heavy sigh of relief, I turned over to find my boyfriend sound asleep, looking strangely peaceful. It was another repeat of the sub-conscious hallucination that has been tormenting my mind lately, manifested by fears which I'm unready to face.

I never, ever in my life imagined moving away from Florida and away from my family, until recently, due to a case of love so strong that it would make me willing to hike Mt. Everest naked. I found the man that meets the highest standard for everything that I want in a companion. And he found me. I definitely got the better end of the deal. I discovered that he's contemplating moving back home to Tennessee in a few years. He won't go without me. Neither one of us would allow it. But I'm surprisingly okay with it all.

As a child, I was a complete tomboy. I loved playing baseball and catching lizards and frogs and scaring my mother. I rebelled from lacy dresses and frilly socks and didn't care to give Barbie a second thought. I would beat up my little brother, and then beat up the boys that beat up my little brother. I climbed trees and built forts and skinned my knees repeatedly by failing attempted stunts on my bike. Not much has changed, with the exception of puberty and the drive that came to clean up my act enough to still attract the boys.

Today is my eighth day without excess sugar in my system. This past year has been a difficult one and the effects have worn physically on my body, leaving me binging on sugary desserts and delicacies. I realized that I'd really lost control. The cravings had been making my life miserably unmanageable. It took me months to get honest with myself and then it took praying for willingness to be able to make a change. I already feel more motivated to take better care of my body as I used to. I feel like myself again. It's a beautiful thing.

Owning a puppy and apartment living does not mix well with a forecast of 8 inches rain. In the past, I would've been delighted by such weather conditions. I've always loved sitting cozily indoors, listening to the sound of rain pelting steadily against my window and watching outside as the wind moves swiftly through the trees, bringing the outside world chaotically to life. However, these days, it revolves around the inconvenience of my small puppy's potty schedule. I don't want to go out into gusting rain and wind anymore than he does, but it's still better than cleaning up shit.

The media has been all over the recent case of a woman who suffered a heart attack while riding the Incredible Hulk at Universal Studio's Islands of Adventure. Not to be insensitive, but there has been a lot of unnecessary bad publicity for the theme park over this woman's condition, and as of today, her death. It took a couple of days for a report to come back indicating that there were no malfunctions on the ride, yet the news media still reports the news with a finger pointed, as they similarly do when someone is "accused" of a crime.