Sometimes when I see my ass in the mirrors in a dressing room I wonder how a 50 year old butt got stuck on mine. Whoever the asshole was who came up with cellulite—you should be strung up by your delicate parts!

I feel a lot like I am on autopilot. I think I am depressed. I find myself going along and agreeing to participate in future activities out of some sense of obligation when really all I want to do is hide in my bed. I think I am having trouble with the whole reality thing. I am very good at imagining how life could be and how I want my life to turn out. I think that is a liability because reality doesn’t have my creative vision. Reality doesn’t trust that I would indeed share my powerball winnings far and wide and therefore I am the best person to win. Damn disagreeable reality. We just can’t seem to get along.

Poor Stone seems willing to watch me battle reality. He amuses me. I have such doubts about everything. I constantly question his motives. Unfairly, I compare him with Tim every time he says any guilt inducing thing about wanting to spend time with me. I think “yeah, yeah right now you think you can’t get enough of me, but soon enough you will be telling me with bloodshot eyes that you have had enough.” Of course, this all plays in my head and I say nothing, but perhaps he can feel something is amiss and is too shell- shocked himself to even question it.

Well, I can’t think of much else to write about today.

Love to all.