Friday February 21, 1997: Today I was walking down street; with my face twisted into its usual gargoyle grimace as a warning to all those who might cross my path. I wasn't lost in my thoughts, I knew exactly where I was going. And thus I saw him only when he spoke to me: "Cheer up, baby. It can't be that bad!" Oh, it can't, can it? Well, have a fucking seat, and I'll tell you exactly how bad it can be: First of all, I'm on my way to some demeaning temp job for which I have to wear "professional attire." The subway ride to midtown during rush hour always gives me a lift. My boyfriend left me for another woman, and guess what? I'm not over it. My parents still feel justified in treating me like an 11-year-old. There was too much milk in my latte. My sister is getting married. My younger sister. I'm obsessed with my own mortality. And I am constantly having to fend off people like you who seem to flock to me as if you had been beckoned. Lighten up. Be happy. Why the frown? Smile! It's a beautiful day! Oh, shut up. I worked hard to find the darkest mood I could. I won't give it up that easy. And you, you with your cheer ups, your smiles, your be happies, you just gave me another reason to stay there. Saturday, February 22, 1997: Obviously, my answering machine does not discriminate. Because I came home to a message from Mitchell. "Hey, Anita. It's Mitchell. I'm just calling to say hi." Oh, thank you, Mitchell. You've made my life complete. "It's Mitchell. I'm just calling to say hi." You can't fool me. You're not calling to say hi. You're not calling to see how I am or calling to let bygones be bygones. You're calling because you want to be sure I haven't forgotten. No, I haven't forgotten. How could I when your memory wakes me up every morning at six a.m.? "I'm just calling to say hi." Call to say that you miss me. Call to say you've made a mistake. Call to say you can't live without me. But don't bother to call if you're: Just calling to say hi. You must be: Hi. Sunday, February 23, 1997: Napped. Had a dream that I had a baby. A baby dream. I have them all the time, but this time it was a real baby, not a cat, or a rabbit, or a litter of Maltese puppies. All women have baby dreams. But do men? I asked a couple if they do. Nope. They don't. At least the ones I asked don't, or they just won't admit it. No, men dream about running for president. Or coming to plate at the bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded, and they can't lift the bat. Or having sex with gorgeous, unattainable women. I mean, really, why waste precious dream time recognizing your fears of procreation when your mind is just as able to conjure up Claudia Schiffer (or in my case, Luke Perry) in a tank top? Good question.

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