Sometimes I find myself crying over stupid things, and (half-hoping) wonder if I might be pregnant. I never am. Maybe i'm just imbalanced. It's one of those days again. Nothng particularly earthshaking today, and yet here I am again in the pit where hope never shines, where things will never get better and nothing is ever gonna change and if I weren't so afraid of pain or making a mistake, if all I had to do was agree and get it over with, then I would simply say "Yes".

It's not all that bad, I know. But at times like these i KNOW: it's never gonna get much better.

I wonder why living is so difficult for me. Maybe I'm not meant to. Maybe because as a writer, like it or not, whether or not I do any actual writing, I end up living it all twice or thrice or multiples thereof. Maybe I need religion. Or someone who actually needs me, instead of the adults in my life for whom I might be useful or helpful or amusing but never a life-maker or -saver. Maybe a job that makes a difference. I don't know.

I liked Steve Martin's description of Mirabelle in his novella "Shopgirl", though I cannot remember his exact words...something about selling things no one buys anymore. It reminds me that I'd like a fairytale wedding with opera-length gloves and a Cinderella ballroom gown. And then I begin to think about how Patrick wants a sunset wedding, barefoot at the beach, and I begin to wonder how well we really know each other, if we're suited at all.

I got slapped with "Farah, you need to do some crunches or situps or something." at work today. Not as part of casual banter or even bored conversation. Just a slap-and-run, no hi-hello-how-are-you.