may I take your order?

I'm not mad, but I hope to never have to see my friend's face go through the alteration it took at around 11:45 last night. There was nothing for me to say. I'm rarely speechless but as we cabbed it downtown from where we were waiting I opened the window and stared with my eyes in a fixed forty-five-degree angle and imagined any possible reason to justify the look in Asit's eyes.

My feelings would be best expressed in a monologue from the made from TV movie Long Island Lolita: the Amy Fisher Story. And in this monologue I will be playing the part of the victimized yet resilient miss Mary Joe Buttafuoco.

The day yesterday had been lovely.

I walked 1.3 miles in exactly sixteen minutes at four o'clock in the morning last Friday night.

I slept from six a.m. until noon and had the house to myself for writing and reading people's journals.

The tanning bed experience was two-sided: it made me feel rejuvinated after months and months of cold and sunless-ness, but it also made me feel shallow and vain, and like I had betrayed some code of cool that I had previously subscribed to.

I felt like I was getting dressed for a double-date last night, even though that had never been mentioned, I still assembled myself as such. Aside from the couple-dynamics that were possible was the feeling that the four of us together would make for fabulous company.

Asit and I are best friends.

Cassandra and Christian are... good... friends...Accidentally kiss someone your own size I said.

Generally when Asit and I are with other people he and I find our humor remaining between the two of us and having no permiation for our companions. Cass and Chris seemed funny enough to keep up.

That prospect alone made me happy.

You think that you can front when revelation comes? You can't front on that.

But we got stood up. I've never been stood up. I've been blown off lotsa times. But not stood up.

Free drinks at Patio helped: we both realized there was nothing short of them being struck by a bus as a worthy excuse.

An explanation today from Christian didn't help, but at least he "knows he has more to do." A phone call from Cassandra still left questions.

Never in my life have insects feasted on me so. I think it's the damp ole subway tunnels filled with rat-lice and shit.I'm from the south where the mesquitos (skeeters, we call them) are the size of birds, and they don't bite me (becuase I'm too mean, mama says). But the NYC bugs chow-down, but only on the right side of my body...

I'm the snack that smiles back.

Today I was home by two, and the family was home around three.

For my part I did manage to get two pages of a first-draft letter written to Patrick today. It's no easy thing to do to put into words why my feelings changed as quickly as they did. I'm really afraid about him living here in New York. When he finds out I live here he'll want to meet me. The idea of meeting him frightens me very much. I have no confidence about being able to manage the situation. Letters yes: meeting no.

Aside from writing a gut-wrenching letter I've also been copying all my cd's onto my hard-drive for making compilations.

I've met two wonderful girls on this Diary Land thing (mistakemade, and thejokesonme) and they both deserve on of my mixes. I'm also going to send one to Mikaela to cheer her up.

Who else wants one?

In closing, I would like to say that there is nothing better to listen to in New York than the Beastie Boys.

Ad Rock has the best rhymes.

MCA has the best voice, with that Brooklyn accent.

Mike D has the master-plan.

I think that I would become hopelessly devoted if I ever found a b-boy to say to me, "Kiss that punk-rock guy goodbye cause, you know, you are the ONE the FUCKIN ONE!"

Last night wasn't about me -- at all. But I watched some shit go down for other people, and I don't like it. If there's anything I can do to make it better I will find what it is and do it.