I don't mean to go all Lot on everyone, but my recent string of bad luck has pushed me to a breaking point, literally and figuratively. Who else but a cursed child of the universe undergoes three rear-end collisions, four pulled teeth, a bashed-in left toe (the result of drunken misadventures, don't ask), and a twice-broken foot in less than a year's time? While my life mantra is to avoid taking myself seriously at all costs, I've begun to entertain the possibility that my existence is offending some higher power. Paranoia strikes, and treading lightly is difficult for a gimp.

"It could be worse..."

It could always be worse. There could be deafness in addition to blindness, cancer on top of diabetes, murder after rape. The idea that shittier sets of circumstances than those currently being experienced could beset a human being should be of little consolation to any reasonable person. My friends and neighbors' inventions of hypothetically horrible situations so that sufferers (me, for one) can be thankful for all that they do have is enough to convince me that everyone in this world is some manifestation of my mother. I (and maybe you, too?) cannot escape Catholic guilt.

As an avid runner (though not necessarily a speedy one), the news of my broken foot crushed me. I've been ordered to refrain from biking, running, walking, and ellipticizing, and as I despise swimming, my workout possibilities are few and far between. Never fear, though—I've invented an innovative—albeit ridiculous—way to work up a sweat: dancing. Alone, in my room, with my iPod. Without moving my legs. There is lots of flailing, shimmying, shaking, and waving. You can bet that there are spirit fingers. I think I'm crazy, but who knows? I could be starting a workout revolution...

I'm not sure if I've really ever been loved. Beloved, yes, but loved...questionable. I'm more of a novelty item to those around me. People love to talk to me, love to joke with me, love to dance with me (I've got moves), love to brag about me, but they don't love me directly. Love for me generally requires some prepositional phrase padding, as if I'll break if loved in one lump sum. Is it possible that I am being whiny and ridiculous? Completely. But if you loved somebody, would you always make her be Scary Spice during lip synching sessions?

I am spending my entire summer with my Favorite Person Ever. It is a common misconception that one's Favorite Person Ever should be a best friend, a close family member, or an influential role model. Rather, a FPE needs to be fairly distant; you only see him or her about once or twice a year. FPE's seem immensely funny, charismatic, and interesting to you, precisely because you don't encounter them on a regular basis. My FPE, for example, is a liberal, vegan Canadian student who used to chuck her cat down the steps to ensure that it had nine lives.

The allure of Favorite People Ever fades with bonding time. Whereas the Favorite Person Ever brightens your day with random emails and quirky phone messages when the two of you are apart, you become all too aware of her various flaws upon your reunion. You remember that she is flaky at times like your close friends, obnoxious in big crowds like your little sister, even a bit condescending like that teacher you hated in seventh grade. She becomes a person with flaws just like everyone else. And this realization—however obvious upon reflection—makes your world a little bit dimmer.

I am currently experiencing a literary dilemma. This happens every time I go to the bookstore, but my distraught was especially intense today. At one point, I was juggling seven books and cursing myself for falling in love with "Go Dog Go"at age three, when I whetted my insatiable appetite for the written word. My major problem is treating books like they are food groups; I MUST balance classics, nonfiction, essay collections, and novels or I will be intellectually malnourished! I ended up with some Augusten Burroughs, Zadie Smith, and Dave Eggers—the literary equivalents of carbs, I think.

Sometimes, I can only handle tribulations if I have miserable company. I can be okay with sweating profusely, bleeding from the eyes, pouring alcohol on a billion paper cuts, allowing birds with sharp talons to claw at my intestines, walking on rusty nails, and balding as long as I have others to commiserate with. Perhaps the solidarity of sufferers allows me to transcend my pain—perhaps. Mostly, though, I think loneliness is the worst suffering a human being can experience. And if other people are having a rough time along with me, I figure I haven't hit rock bottom yet.

I am usually a cynical bitch when it comes to romance. I point out clichÃÆ'©s in love songs, snarl when told how beautiful my eyes are, and despise couples who walk hand in hand. Of course, Valentine's Day is a special form of hell for me. But I am a sucker for boyish charm. Give me a Danny or a Joey or a Billy in a baseball hat, a t-shirt, and some jeans, and I just keel over. A guy who hugs his mom, declares his love for his buddies, and has a mischievous glint in his eyes. Kills me.

My little sister bawled her eyes out at her grammar school graduation, and you can bet that I mocked her. Much in the same fashion that I mocked her when she wailed endlessly at her kindergarten graduation, although it was probably cruel to brush off a five-year-old's tears with "Who the hell cares?" It's a bit scary how trivial our past lives seem once we've gotten our driver's licenses, drank our first happy hour cocktails, grown up. I pretend to be unfamiliar with the goofy little me who wore stirrup pants and bedazzled sweatsuits, but she's still in me somewhere.

I don't know anyone who doesn't love lists. If you don't love lists, you:

1.) can't prioritize, because you cannot rank your favorite people, dreams, etc. if you refuse to separate ideas, the essence of listing.

2.) are thereby a fuck-up with no friends, career plans, or notable interests.

3.) don't like High Fidelity, which makes you an even worse fuck-up.

4.) are most likely an annoying grocery shopper, incessantly pestering employees because you've never organized your needs according to stores' aisles.

5.) Are number two on my list of people I love to argue with, following bandwagon sports' fans.

The little girls who live next door freak me out. They're pseudo-albino and uber-hyper; platinum blond, milk-drenched little gremlins who scamper all over our lawn in metallic princess garb. Whenever I venture outdoors, they are peering at me from their living room window, eternally mouthing "hi"and flailing their white chocolate-covered twig arms around. Their mother does not help matters. "Look who it is!!!"she exclaims when I cross their path, smiling feebly. "Isn't she pretty, girls?" And they ogle. They stare at me from their eerie, maniacal, Popsicle-drenched faces and snatch pieces of my soul, bit by tiny bit.

Nobody, not even the most horrendous, baby-hating, old lady-bashing, cannibalistic serial killer deserves to wake up before 6 in the morning. I just don't think that it's decent to expect a human being to rise with the sun. As far as I'm concerned, 5 in the morning is not our time to shine. Let that bright ball of burning gas warm up before we start making those pesky, ever shifting shadows that it strives so earnestly to fill. Sunrises are the most beautiful when they're viewed beneath the sleepy-eyed veil of half-dreams, not from the windshield en route to work.

I was a ridiculous child. I begged my parents to call me by the names of various Disney princesses and fairy tale heroines. At age four, I was Dorothy; six, Belle. I longed to be a jockey, a nun, and a paleontologist, though not a jockey-nun-paleontologist. Please. That would be silly. My idols were Nancy Kerrigan and Amelia Earhart. I demanded to have a blue felt M&M Halloween costume created for me when blue M&M's first found a home amongst the traditional brown, yellow, green, and red shells. Upon reflection, I was much a more interesting person. Insane, but awesome.

The song "Brown Eyed Girl"packs a boatload of personal anecdotes on the topic of ostracism. As a blue-eyed gal, I've always resented the fond finger-pointing and earnest—albeit obnoxious and off-key—serenading to those doe-eyed bitches who make themselves known in crowds as Van Morrison's favorites. When this troublesome song came on at one party, prompting me to shake it, I was actually told to take a seat. I didn't have brown eyes. Nevermind that I had some kickin' moves and an angelic voice (do you see how I've been forced to overcompensate?). My sparkling sapphires weren't good enough.

I've also heard from a reputable source that Van Morrison was a son of a bitch. My cousin from Dublin has given me the insider's scoop on all famous Irish musicians, including U2, Thin Lizzy, and Dexy's Midnight Runners. Apparently, Van Morrison once dated the lovely Miss Ireland, Eileen O'Hara. I completely invented that name, by the way; sue me. Anyway, Van Morrison was once seen dragging Eileen through the streets of Ireland by her hair. The moral of this story? If you're a brown-eyed girl (Eileen almost certainly was), you'll be abused. Badly. So there. Blue-eyed girls dominate! Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-ti-da!

"Hey there, amigo!"sang Jack, my clueless godfather.

"What did you you just say?"asked my dad with a glint in his eye.

"Hey there, amigo..."he repeated, much weaker this time.

My dad guffawed violently. "By that do you mean, "hey where'd we go?"

Jack's mistake was an epic slip-up; every time that "Brown-Eyed Girl"has been played at barbeques and holiday parties since, the entire crowd bellows the first line according to his creative rendition. It's our family's patented example of the "Hold Me Close, Young Tony Danza"Complex, where the afflicted staunchly—albeit hilariously—misconstrue song lyrics.

I've come down with a case or two of the "Hold Me Close, Young Tony Danza"Complex before, I'll admit it. I swear to God that it's not "Evil Woman,"but, rather, "Medieval Woman." At least I've never belted out, "I've been through the desert on a horse with no mane." Please, I'm not lame. But once I set my mind to mistaken song lyrics, don't expect me to revise my interpretations. Refusal to correct oneself is the defining symptom of the "HMCYTD"Complex. Hence, my sister still sings "I love you Daaaaaad"instead of "I hope you dance." Freak.

ALF is, by far, the most frightening creature that has ever graced the face of this earth, even if he was only a midget in a furry costume. Of course, my older sister had to be obsessed with the frickin show when I was four years old and very skittish by nature. I would sprint away from the television and lock myself in my bedroom whenever the horrible phallus-nosed alien appeared, panting feverishly all the while. I mean, I was really terrified of this fucker. The rings on my wooden door freaked me out because they looked like his snout.

Friendship divorces are considerably more nauseating than romantic breakups or familial disownings. Some may choose to grit their teeth through the pains of love, but people crash and burn all the time. Even though nothing is supposed to be closer than blood, humans cannot select their own relatives and, therefore, may suffer tremendously from incompatibility. But our hand-picked friends are supposed to anchor us against the storms of time, change, and confusion. And when we just want to sail the hell out of the harbor and take a lap around the lake, why do we feel so bad? Lemme go.

"When you're 53, you'll understand."

My dad wakes up in the middle of the night to eat ice cream. It used to be cookies before my mom banished them from the pantry in a South Beach Diet frenzy. He paces the dining room, eyes dark and glazed, bowl in hand. He sometimes fishes old newspapers out of the garbage and scans them for unread articles.

When you're 53, your mind won't let you sleep through an entire night. Once you begin to have dreams about your children aging and your deceased brothers divulging the secrets they never shared, you'll understand.

It's so like me to feel the most suicidal on Sundays, those sacred days of rest that most normal people devote to reading the newspaper and grilling burgers, dogs, and brats in the backyard. Hangovers aside, Sundays are achy and heartrending in all the worst places. Because on Sundays, I think. I remind myself of all the things I didn't accomplish in the preceding week, of being faced with yet another week on which I have no clear grasp, and of the fact that I woke up alone. The numbing, choking introspection only wanes when I'm hours away from Monday.

My high school principal was fired in a dictatorial corporate conspiracy, and my alma mater consequently became a war zone. It was unfathomable to imagine the sparkling halls of my all-girls Catholic school filled with protest posters, adamant faculty members, and weeping students. Unfathomable, and unbearably sad. The brilliant women who taught me about Hamlet's psyche, conflict in the Middle East, and social responsibility were out of jobs because they defended their boss, their inspiration. When we graduated, we joked that the school would flounder without us. And now we can only remember our high school with tinges of devastation.

After attending a friend's grandma's funeral today, I feel compelled to talk about death, yet hesitant to attempt it in one hundred words. So instead of pretending to be capable of any sort of profound insight into the deepest of losses, I can only offer you this:

An empty, neatly made bed at 4:00 A.M.

bagpipes slicing the cloudless sky, drowning the click of high heels against the pavement

clanking incense chains

wells of tears

"Can you say ‘Happy Easter' in Greek, Gram?"

"Happy Easter in Greek, you stupid bastards, and turn off the camera while my wig is off.-

I forfeit my words today to Ethan, one of the lawyers I am clerking for and one of my many unrequited and inappropriate crushes.

"So I got this letter from my kid's day camp that reads, 'Your child is in danger of contracting coxsackie, as one of our kids has come down with a case of hoof-and-mouth disease.' I'm like, I'm hoping he has some big-time coxsackie, he does take after his Daddy."

"You say you can't stand Jonathan because he is an arrogant prick, but that is inconsistent with you liking me. I am Mr. Arrogant Prick. And Jewish.-

I feel like such a sell-out. I just bought a piano arrangement of "Seasons of Love." First of all, that's so lame and the cashier had every right to mock me mercilessly. And second of all, I have been on a piano-playing hiatus for 7 months after performing Bach and Chopin and shit for fourteen years. Pathetic. So guilty of pandering to the drunk friend and family audience. I promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise promise PROMISE though, I'll never play "Piano Man.-

I am incapable of imagining myself as a mother.

I am becoming friends with my sisters after despising them my entire life.

I am still not so fond of my mother.

I am considering chopping off my hair even though I know I'll regret it the minute my overpriced hairdresser spins me around in the salon chair. I have a fucking afro and I'm Irish and Greek.

I am the white girl who gets lost on the West Side of Chicago with her Coach purse in clear view and her John Mayer CD blasting from the windows.

I am trying.

I've been taking painkillers lately. Ok, it's not like that. I got four wisdom teeth pulled and I can barely breathe for want of the gauze that constantly fills my mouth. But there's still a sense of crisis that overtakes you when you're popping vicodin. It's along the same lines of that sensation you get when you stumble home alone after a long night of drinking and look at yourself in the mirror, mascara running down your face, eyes red and glossy, hair as big as Dolly Parton. "Fuck,"you tell yourself, holding back tears maybe. "I am fucked up.-

"Whatever, I don't want kids. I probably won't even get married until I'm 48."

"Oh, you're lying, you want a big family.-

"No, I really don't. No animals either.-

"Shut up Baker. I see you with 5 kids, all frazzled-like. The condom will break, don't you worry.-

"That was mildly inappropriate. No, I'm serious, 2 children. Tops.-

"You probably should rethink what you're okay with in life, considering your rotten luck. It wouldn't be beyond you to get pregnant at age 23 from some random guy, right in the middle of your dissertation.-

"Ah, your faith in me is refreshing.-

I hate waking up to find that I've been clutching my pillow all night long. I used to just roll away from the damn thing, but now I chuck it at the wall and flop back down on my bed, panting. I'm not dependant on anything. Not coffee in the morning, not the droning fan that puts me to sleep, not you. Oh, God, not you. So stop laughing at my jokes, stop singing along with me and the radio, stop answering my phone calls, stop being my best friend. I don't need you. Get out of my head.