JAM! and I were driving through town this afternoon, and as we slowed through the intersection by Rita's the radio was playing some Jason Mraz with a low-key bounce, and I looked out the window at all the people sitting there -- in their coats and hats, eating Italian ice at little red metal tables, squinting in the spring sunshine. They were having conversations I couldn't hear, but they all seemed so relaxed. This one girl, especially, someone said something to her, and she turned her face to him and nodded -- there was something so open in her expression, and it was so obvious that he hadn't said anything important, he had just started a story about something someone said, something mundane, but she was glad hear it. And it was like, how did they get here? What were they doing before this? Were the kids waiting all winter for Rita's to open? Were they thinking about summer? Were they sitting around their houses, all doing different things, watching TV and reading magazines and doing dishes, and someone said, "Hey, why don't we go somewhere?" It was just so Saturday, all these people with nothing better to do. All these people just with each other. And there was this chilly clear weather, and this vaguely sunny music, and it was like watching a whole movie or reading a whole novel or living a whole lifetime in the space of five seconds.

I was thinking about how yesterday was Ash Wednesday (which, man, it felt so right for it to follow Super Tuesday) and I spent it carefully avoiding touching my forehead -- which was weird, because I think I got ash'd once in my life. Maybe twice. And anyway, that got me thinking about how I was never really religious and not particularly attached to the Catholic Church (I stopped going to Mass pretty much as soon as I was confirmed, and I was an altar girl for feminist reasons, not religious ones) and of course, as soon as I thought, "I can't even remember the Apostle's Creed," I promptly remembered the first four lines: We believe in one god, the father almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all that is seen and unseen. (Which, you know what? Is not even the Apostle's Creed. It's the Nicene Creed. Who knew?)

But man, is that some good shit. Just listen to it -- go to a Catholic church and sit through a Mass and listen to it. We start off with this rhythm, right, slow and droning, and then suddenly it's God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, the words tumble together and they're practically a song, and then we're droning again, till suffered, died, and was buried, and on the third day he rose again, in fulfillment of the Scriptures, the way we land on those stressed syllables, the way we lift on the rising, that is some fucking poetry, right there.

And it's funny, because that is what I write when I write about God -- that cult rhythm, that tumble of words -- and there's still something special and comforting about standing in the back of a church, in the dark parts, surrounded by strangers, saying words we all know. There's still magic back there, not God magic but magic between the people, especially if it's a night Mass -- anything can happen when you all step out into the dark.

Oh man. It's such a gray day and I can hear the geese honking as the fly overhead, and it just reminded me of Rutgers, sitting in class and watching the rain splash down on Livingston, staring out the window at the geese drinking out of wide deep puddles, writing lines of poetry about them in the margins of my notes, and the way Kusch's voice just sounded so perfect and warm and comforting on a day like that, when I was still sleepy and cold and wet from the rain. I just feel like curling up in bed and sleeping through the day and watching my most soothing TV shows and reading children's books by he yellow lamplight. I wish it were cold and rainy enough for soup and a hooded sweatshirt, that would be perfect.

Carol from Southampton is really, really convinced that I should go for an MFA. Her exact words were this: "When you are that talented, you have a responsibility to use it." I felt like Spiderman. I bit my lip hard so I wouldn't laugh at her.

It's not that I don't want to do it, it's that I don't know why I want to do it. Is it because I want to get my MFA? Is it because I want to write? Or is it because it's easy? Because people will tell me how good I am, because I can be precocious, because school is something I know I can do, because getting a job isn't.

When I got out of school and I was panicking about being unemployed, I tried to get another internship at CosmoGIRL. I tanked the interview -- I mean spectacularly, I tanked. There should have been fireworks. And immediately I realized I was just trying to crawl back to a place where I was comfortable, where I thought I had it under control. And it isn't possible, and moreover, it isn't good. You do that, you tank. Spectacularly. Don't try it again. (Felt fucking good, though, after the fact.)

The thing is, I don't want to be in publishing, I'm pretty sure of that. I want to work in studios. I want to work on sets. I want to be backstage. Running the concert at Crash Mansion, man, it was like every neuron firing at once. Sitting on a parade float on the 4th of July, hooking up the sound system, riding on a golf cart with a notepad and three backup tracks in my hand, knowing that it was my job to make sure the show went on and nobody saw the seams -- that was where I belonged. An MFA isn't going to get me any closer to that. I don't know what will, but an MFA won't. (UBC in Vancouver has a television writing program -- maybe that's a start?)

I'm two years out of college and I already have regrets. I should have done the NBC Page program. I should have talked to that guy from News 12. But then, the people I want to be, the people I hang on to, they were late bloomers too. They didn't start doing what they do till they were like thirty. Tina Fey was working at the YMCA. Kara was working at Billboard. Maybe they were thinking about what they should have done.

Kara said this thing once, about how you have to believe in yourself, and if you don't, then pretend. Pretend your talent is as big as your balls, is what she says, and then she says this: "Half the time I didn't believe." So there's that. But for me it's the other way around. I know I can do it, I just don't get the chance. I just don't have the balls to go get the chance. But then, when I do have the balls, it doesn't make a difference. I have to fight to get a paycheck. He turns out to be an abusive douchebag. I'm right back where I started. Is it normal for nothing to work, or is it just me? How many times do I have to do this?

I think we're just in our twenties, is what I said to Steph. I don't think we're screwing up, I think we're just in our twenties. I'd like to be thirty-three now, thank you.

I quit my job, right, and I can't even put the crazy into words but ( I will try. )

So tonight I'm on MySpace, and I see that My (Ex-)Boss the Rock Star HAS DE-FRIENDED ME. IT'S LIKE WE BROKE UP. IN MIDDLE SCHOOL.

The show last night was better than I expected, with the exception of My Boss the Rock Star talking after every single song. It helped that the guy who went on before him was really unbelievably awful. It helped that I was mildly drunk for the last half of the set list, too.

I have this habit of answering innocuous questions with complete and total lies, so when his manager was like, "You did a good job tonight. It was stressful, huh?" I was like, "Yeah," when what I really meant was, "No, actually, it was incredibly easy and fun, except for the part where ( you are a total fucking bitch, bitch. ) I don't know why I do this. I tend to...I don't know, live my life by reflex.

Then I spent the rest of the night telling Pixie she's not fat, and asked My Boss the Rock Star if I could read his psych books. (I can! Yes!) I have this love/hate, push/pull thing going on with him, because he doesn't so much know the difference between "boss" and "friend," and so my responses to him are really personal and vehement. When I told him I wanted a re-write of the shoddy employment contract, he started talking about how I have trust issues and he wants to be the person who shows me that not all authority figures will fuck me over, which is astute but also inappropriate and irrelevant. And now we're set up to do that thing I always do, anytime anyone in power halfway gets it, that "notice me! fix me!" thing. Like, literally, I am acting out and it is ridiculous. This is seriously the most bizarre job I've ever had. It's like a very small high school.

Anyway, what I meant to write was: I forgot how much I enjoy running live shows. I think My Boss the Rock Star is under the impression that I really really want to do PR, and he keeps wanting to introduce me to PR people, but I think what I want to do is run around managing rock shows for the rest of my life, because I am really fucking good at it.

I guess that, at some point, you have to end up drunk and crying on the floor outside someone's bathroom, or else you're just not twenty-four. So maybe, in the long run, it won't be a big deal. But for the moment it's just...changed some things. I don't know what yet. I don't have anything to say. In the meantime, the Pixie and I went to Romeo & Juliet at Lincoln Center, and left at intermission because we are not grown-ups. We ran around the building for a little while, watching people out in the courtyard and feeling like someone was going to give us detention. Then we went to Great Adventure and got really excited about "It's Gonna Be Me" playing over the sound system. No, seriously. Twenty-four to fourteen, in three days flat.

So the rest of this post is going to be about ILX. ( Begin tuning out...now. )

Speaking of things that require way too much effort, is anybody else bothered by the new Beyonce song being like thirty-seven minutes long? Cablevision ran an emergency broadcasting system test in the middle of it, and the song was still going. (Also, the test was better than the song: some robot chick narrating the weather report over rustly muzak with staticky dudes arguing in the background and a bunch of staccato beeps. I think it was produced by Timbaland.)

("Beautiful Liar" is the gayest song ever written. Just make out already!)

I'm working with this woman who is like Maura Tierney if Maura Tierney were less Irish and more...partially Asian, and every day I heart her a little more. I have such a sexless, fifth-grade crush on her. I just want her to find me really charming, and invite me to sleepovers where we'll eat cookie dough and play with our Breyer horses, the end.

Which is why I've been hardcore reminded that when I'm being "likeable," I'm essentially being nine. We have these really cushy cubicles that are nearly as tall as I am, and when I have to talk to her, I go stand on the other side of her wall and prop my chin on the ledge and wait, totally teacher's pet, and then when she notices me I get up on tiptoe and talk to her over the wall, because that is like one step away from writing her a note and folding it into a triangle. I do it outside of work, too, and previously I was like, "I really need to work on that," because my identity cannot be based on "young and precocious" all my life. Like, someday someone will be younger than me. And then what? At a certain point, cute is not cute anymore, right? But, like, twenty-four seems like it should be way past that point, and yet cute is cute. So if it works for me, and people do find it charming, then do I need to work on that? Maybe it's not a problem so much as a personality.

One of our freelancers has taken to calling this year "Two Thousand Heaven."

I like it. I have no resolutions, just wishes: that this year will be as good as the last, that there will be more work, more friends, more peanut butter sandwiches, more surprise visits, more birthdays in the park, more fans, more family, more Halloween parties and Grey Goose, more tea, more charity, more music, more dogs, more sitting on the merchandise, more cards for no reason, more trains, more television, more Indian food, more honesty, more openness, more sunsets, more trust. That this will be the year I stand on a rooftop to watch the sun go down, and sit in Central Park to drink champagne. That life will go on.

Enjoy.

Is this what I want to do, or is this easy? Are they maybe the same thing? How long do I want to try? Have I ever? Tried. Do I know how? Am I as good as I think I am? As bad. Does it matter? Where is the person who will care? Why am I the only one? It doesn't even make sense. What is wrong with me? What do I have to look forward to, and when can I start planning? When do I get to stop looking? Sadness is not depression is not death. I don't feel anything. I don't care. I should have rebelled when I had the chance. I am too old for this. I don't want to be. This is not the story of my life. Where is the person who will care? I don't like the people whose lives I am trying to live. I am not angry. Is this what I want? Fantasies and invisible best friends. Other people's lives. I don't want to say goodbye. Maybe this is the difference. Hands in the dark. Dreams I never want to wake. Where do I find it? What do I do? What I want is them in life. Music. I want to feel something, and this is my best bet. I need someone. Just one. Do I stop writing when it happens? Maybe this is my fault. What am I afraid of? I never asked for much. I like the weather. The land. I will do anything. I am not afraid. I am going to be honest. Our children will love the sky.

I need to make a post so I don't end up with back-to-back fives tomorrow. Without further ado, things to do before I die:

-Wear a garter belt.

-Be on a rooftop at sunset.

-Write in wet cement.

-Drink champagne in Central Park.

-Kara DioGuardi.

There will be more.

I fucking love lunch. It's right there in the middle of the day, all, "Dude, ditch work. Do something enjoyable. Have me." I am eating chicken stew and a biscuit, both homemade. Mmm.

I haven't made a personal post in a long time. Not that I made that many personal posts to begin with, but there are now a lot of conversations, interviews, enjoyed moments, workplace hijinks, existential crises, and relationship happenings of which you are unaware (unless you are Pixie). Like, for instance, we re-arranged the office. The bookshelves fell off the wall. Brain tumor comedy. My newfound love for Gregory House. Jet called me, and I was finally like, "Look, dude, are you ever going to ask me out?" and he was like, "Probably not," and then we went to dinner anyway. The Hell's Kitchen Flea Market. The lighting in my room. I am having my twice-yearly craving for a significant other, probably because of Jet and also it's autumn. I'm just not that interested in my life anymore. I'd rather write other things. I'm thinking of taking up photoblogging.

I totally forgot I was writing this, and now it's four hours later. I wish I still had that stew.

My karma is always reverse karma: I posted about how stable my moods are, so now I'm bummed and I don't know why. Well, no, I do know why. But it's a stupid reason and I'm being a total girl.

I have discovered, however, that when I'm bummed, I get actual useful work done. So, you know, yay for that.

Yesterday, lunch and awesomeness in Central Park with quasiradiant, thenewhope, and projectjulie. Today, the dog woke me up at nine, I finished the September issue of Lucky, and then we went for breakfast with Andy.

I don't know. I don't think things are that complicated. This is just in general. There has been a lot of talk around me lately about things that people are going through, and it's like, what? I find it hard to get worked up about anything. I know part of this is because I am a robot and I lack the requisite programming for emotional experience, but it's not like I don't get happy or sad. I do. But when I'm happy, it's such a small step up from my baseline, and when I'm sad, I'm still satisfied underneath it all, so it never really registers. Even the things in my life that should have been terrifying or frustrating--my mom, my dad, the job--it's like, you adapt, you know? Whatever. And as I get older, I get more whatever about it all. This is also a bad thing because I can't even get nervous about deadlines now, which means I never finish anything anymore, and I kind of think I have ADD because there are points where I am so painfully bored with procrastinating that I want to do my work and I know the ideas are in me somewhere, and yet I. Just. Can't. I don't know. I was reading back through my journal, and it looks like my life is all peaches and cream, which in a way it is--or, more accurately, it's entire cakes delivered to my door. Which is why I'm thinking about all this now.

I've been watching them renovate a little shop near Port Authority, first tearing down the old sign, then newspapering over the windows, painting the outside, putting on a new door. They finally got to the point where they had put "soups, salads, sandwiches, desserts" but the place in the center where the name of the restaurant would go was still empty. Until yesterday, when the new sign was revealed: MR. FOOD. You see?

I woke up this morning and put on The Dance, and it still feels the same after all these years--that big, heavy, solid rhythm section, all the familiar opening notes, the voices I know better than my own. In a way, I feel closer to that album than to anyone I knew at the time. I remember piling pillows on the floor in front of the television in the dark, every night, long after everyone had gone to bed, curling up and watching the video even though I'd already memorized every shot. I remember going to bed with my headphones on and my CD player tucked against my side, falling asleep to the sound of Lindsey's guitar. I remember how much I loved Stevie's voice, and and how The Wild Heart still reminds me of cold afternoons, and how I went to Hollywood and combed through every music memorabilia shop, because there is still something special about having touched their albums in the place where it all started, like it was 1977 and it was all new. I probably loved Fleetwood Mac more than anyone when I was fifteen--my first love wasn't a boy, or a girl, but a band. And that's never going to happen again.

It's pouring out. With all the time I've spent in New York, it's funny to realize all the things I haven't seen here. That freak spring snowfall was my first snow. This is the first time I've seen it rain so hard. It's a summer a rain, a hot rain, with a green sky and humid wind and thick heavy drops you can see splashing against the ground--the kind of rain I've only ever seen out my back door, with the gutters overflowing onto the deck and the leaves on the dog tree pelleting down and the color of the backyard like it's reflecting the sky. I didn't even know the sky could get green in the city. Which, of course it can, but to me that doesn't happen anywhere else.

Remember Snood?

I hate when one of my favorite books starts falling apart, and I have to either live with the loose pages or replace it. I hate both options because I hate the bumps loose pages make when I stroke the edges, but I hate the new books too. I don't want a new book. I want this book, with the same cover art, and the same font, and the page edges worn soft, and that sweet book smell. This is the book I fell in love with. I don't feel connected to new art and new pages, not the same way.

This song is like Bjork plus Yoko Ono times pretentious art kids in Brooklyn, divided by Reality Bites.

The Big Boss took today off, and everyone else skipped out early, but I wanted to get paid till 4:30, so I hung around reading backissues and then I took a walk. I ended up in Madison Square Park, stretched out on a park bench, listening to '70s Motown and staring at the skyline. It's a beautiful place to look up.

At a certain point, I found myself thinking: This is my life. It wasn't a particularly emotional thing, just a reflection. Because, first of all, this has always been my life, with the subways and the pretty windows. I just wasn't living it yet. And because, second of all, I very rarely just live my life. I live a lot of daydreams. As a kid, I was so obsessed with books that I became different characters and narrated my life in my head, and now it's just second nature--the narration is gone, but I'm still usually somewhere or someone else in my mind, thinking about this character and this place and this story alongside my actual life. But today, lying on a park bench, it was just my life. And it was just, like...calm. And right. I have a life.

And now, a minor crisis: My hairstylist is retiring. She's getting married in July and she wants to have a baby right away. (Minus ten cool points.) Congratulations to her, but what of my hair???

Is it good or bad that I've learned I don't always have to do the best I've ever done? Good is good. Good is good enough.