I could dress in black and read Camus

It took me over 35 minutes, and maybe my entire motivation for the day, but I managed to clean every last dish in my apartment. I'm embarassed even typing that, since it reveals how many days I had let pass without tidying up. Somehow, and maybe this is from watching too many movies, I equate this level of filth with severe depression. And yo, most of my friends are in the dumps at the moment- I cannot be jumping into their lot. I have to keep it together, although the glue to cement myself in place seems elusive at the moment.

Really, all I want to do tonight is spend my evening licking my completely imagined wounds, talking myself out of this stupor, removing the manic from Manic Street Preachers. I am conflicted, because I told SP that we could possibly go see Talladega Nights. You know how you're not supposed to swim on an empty stomach (or an hour after eating? I don't know, I can never get that right)? Well, similarly, it feels like a bad idea to see a Will Ferrell movie in such a melancholy state.

And yet, that's probably not it. What is probably it is that I know it will be hard, on an evening like this, to hide the blues. And this will be a problem. Because SP will demand to know what the cause of all of this is. And I will tell her, and we will proceed to argue for two hours about the validity of these particular blues. While she means well (and more frustratingly, I know she's ultimately right), this will drive me crazy and cause my head to explode, because right now, I just have this need to simmer in a stew of the blues.

But I can't be having my head explode, because I hope to see A N N A again tomorrow. Can I just tell you all that I completely hogged her last night at Enoteca Viansa? Dudes, I was unabashed about it. I'm still unapologetic about it. And then, she gave me a ride home in the famous red car, which is totally rock star, because it was late, and she had a 2-hour drive home ahead of her. There were other cool people there, and I'll have to write about all of the fun conversations we had some other time. Right now, I am just thoroughly grateful to have spent some time with Anna last night. Sometimes you just need a sincere hug, a good glass of wine, and an impeccable helping of goat cheese.

Now I have to go find something else in the crack shack to clean, the better to snap myself out of this silly funk. Maybe I can talk SP into going to see Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. Far more apropos at the moment.

p.s. Should you ever be in doubt of Maitri's brilliance, you need look no further than this excellent piece that I would really like to print out and send to George W. himself. It makes me wish I could pull off hollering "You go on with your bad self girl!" without sounding like a complete fool.