Cross Roads

My father finally called me to wish me happy birthday. It was after ten o'clock last night, and he had no other reason than that he forgot on Thursday.

He promised me a trip to the ole family-favorite pizza joint in Atlanta when I get home. The place where my Ma was working when she was my age.

Everbody's Pizza: I don't think my dad realizes that I've had more pizza in the last ten months than I had my freshman year of college.

I went to the mall yesterday with Vic and her friend so they could shop Delia's.

Malls make me ashamed of my generation.

I think we're alone now, the beating of our hearts is the only so-ound

I let six seventh-graders watch American Psycho last night.

They were up until after 3 am and I got little to no sleep. Remember me saying I got sick on my birthday? It's worse now. The rain doesn't help.

Today we watched Better Off Dead and the kids impressed me by loving it. Smart kids.

After meeting Jake Gyllanhaal, John Cusack is the only other star I feel I *have* to meet.

And Al Pacino (hoo-ah!)

I need to listen to some more fluffy music. Something upbeat and poppy. My music is heavily stacked on the melancholy side.

I can't get through The Unbearable Lightness of Being because I'll read a chapter, and then spend the next couple days just reading the chapter over and over again.

Because it is words that are describing so many ideas I could not find a lexicon for. Things that were once a groan are now an utterance.

Life After God by Douglas Coupland is doing the same thing.

How is it possible that at this broadest expanse of wilderness than any I've ever encountered, I would also find two books that give a vocabulary to how I feel?

Providential, I suppose.

I'm glad I'm not the only one who understands right now.

There has got to be another tattoo before I leave New York.