3:39 p.m.||||2002-11-15

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I swear there's nothing worse than not knowing upon waking whom you e-mailed last night and to whom you might owe an apology.

I'm pretty sure I'm ok, although it's like the night after a party, a little bit.

I need to get out more.

We're taking Josh to

Gene's for dinner tonight, and room full of clutter and troubleshooting.

(The thing is, I like the illusion I have that I am fairly anonymous here, and no-one will ever drop in from somewhere to remind me that on the other side is human-ness, with the inherent freakiness that this entails. Would I strike up this kind of conversation on the street? Probably not. Actually, actively avoiding those kinds of interactions. Well, in addition to ANY interactions. Socially phobic, a little bit.)

I sort of feel as if I'm under intense pressure, but its the kind that's hard to identify.

SO. When I was mulling all this over earlier, outside, where it's snowing, I remembered this one time, that I know Lazy hates to recall, but it was such a shining example in my life of arriving at a crossroad, where suddenly I understood what it like when no-one believes you anymore, you have made your own case, because you have made yourself an unreliable witness.

I'll sum that one up: because I had been known to be a certain kind drunk (read: liability), one time, at a restaurant, it was assumed I had passed out in a bathroom, which I hadn't but no-one believed. And I was ok with that, much later. At the time it sucked, and I felt trapped in some kind of freaky parallel universe, where no-one could understand me.

Actually, the entire sequence of event is so funny to me now - it could be the basis for some kind of play; performance piece, possibly.

My whole point is that when I remembered the story today, all I could think was, "it was so stupid to throw those shoes like I did, I wonder where they wound up. They built something in the place where they would have landed. Oh man, I did a cartwheel in the little courtyard area, in those shoes, with no bra. In front of everybody."

For some reason that reminds me: I saw the Panic Room recently and you know the real estate agent that shows her the building? That's Ann Magneson! From Bongwater! I love Bongwater...Harry has a box set of everything and sometimes we have been known to listen to that while we throw some darts.

My skill at dart playing matches neither my ego or sense of competition. Which is to say, I suck pretty much, have a few good runs every now and then, but usually need a full hour to myself to warm up beforehand. So I can predict with some reliability. I'm better at darts than pool.

Being a decent dart player is contingent on one thing. The resources to play often. Not even a dart room, although that's the best! - just some space on one wall and enough feet to back up. And darts and a dartboard.

I have yearning to become an expert in something. Darts feel good.