I woke up from the single strangest nightmare I've ever had: a friend of mine and I were both turning in applications and being interviewed for a part-time job. Not even the job I *want*. Some shit part-time gig like the one I got, only for slightly more money. My friend got it, I didn't. I'm asking the interviewer what was wrong with my application and she won't tell me. Then I woke up.

I was depressed for most of today so I tried to distract myself by working on my article for Vital Voice. Read a bit of Shelley, wrote some more of Chapter 1. I'm liking Zan more and more. He's a proper skeptic, denouncing both the punk culture and literature culture in his opening narrative. Watched Mysterious Skin, a film directed by Gregg Araki, based on a book twetwe123 told me about. It'll break your heart. My bangs (fringe) are getting longer so I gave sweeping them to the side a try, pinning them up with bobby pins, parting my hair on the right. I've got this high forehead that I hate. And the red hair (with black roots) flipping outward at the bottom makes me feel like Larry Fine in retro glasses and a tank top.

I haven't purged in more than a week... I think. Hard to keep track. I've been eating healthier. I feel like I've lost weight. The scale says I haven't. But then, the scale is more than ten (maybe fifteen) years old and no matter how you adjust it, it always weighs you five pounds over or under. I want to throw it off the balcony. But it was Grandma's. But then again, she dieted for life too and maybe she'd rejoice with me during this liberating act. She doesn't need it now and neither do I. I'll probably do it around 2 am, giving a good yell as I heave it over the rail, slamming it to the ground below. Put the bags of fast food wrappers my teenage neighbors throw over to shame.

My new mantra: everyday is just one day.