Hooray!

With my new boyfriend Adrien and my imaginary dog Martini by my side, what a rich and full life I shall I lead!

Ex-boyfriend is now happily involved with New (and presumably improved) Girlfriend. I am now happily involved with cheap merlot and self-help books (despite the good advice of g, I can't stop reading them. The sneaky little bloodsuckers. They keep pulling me back in.)

Everybody's now just so happy I don't quite know what to do with myself.

I think I need a new celebrity crush. Someone dazzlingly charismatic yet flawed enough to be realistically vulnerable. David Spade has gotten me through many a lonely night, but he is not quite doing it for me any more. Hugh Grant is sexy but has too many sharp edges. Colin Firth is smolderingly delicious but falls short in the dry humor department. Rupert Everett is perfect in every way but one. Mark Ruffalo is highly appealing but the pouty thing could get old after a while (I'm thinking long-term here.)

Any suggestions?

I just sent out two resumes for teaching jobs. It took considerable girding of my recalcitrant loins, but I did it.

One small step for me, one even smaller step for humankind.

The miniature squad of imaginary cheerleaders who follow me around everywhere waiting for an excuse to bust a move are shaking their tiny invisible pompoms and doing backflips all over my keyboard.

Am in spectacularly lousy mood. Spent much of today wandering the streets wrapped in dark cloud of gloom, alternating between missing of boyfriend past and dreading approach of uncertain, possibly boyfriendless and definitely scary future, envisioning various scenarios of mayhem and destruction. Feeling strong desire to abandon all resposibilities and hope of productivity and go hole up in a dingy bar and drink martinis until my liver shrivels.

However. Am being good girl and resisting self-destructive urges. Yay me.

On the bright side....(if there actually is one)...I am student-teaching ESL for a class that I am taking in hopes of finding employment that will free me from my current miserable morass of messy meaninglessness. It is going quite well, except for the fact that when my students talk to each other in Spanish I worry that they are talking about me and that there is something despicable hanging out of my nose. Must find out what Spanish for booger is so that I can relax.

Must off now to engage in naughty fantasies about David Spade and attempt to get six and a half hours of sleep.

I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.
I will not wallow in self-pity.

Wallowing is a thoroughly unattractive activity and appropriately performed only by members of the swine family.

At least I've discovered something that I think has permanently cured me of any tendency to obsess over my age. Whenever I start getting jealous of all the fresh-faced overly energetic twenty-two-year-olds I work with, I remind myself that if the world ends next week, I will have had ten years more of life than they have. Ten glorious years. What does it matter that I'm poor, single, and my acting career consists mainly of trying to pretend that I don't hate my job?

Now I don't even mind that today is my half-birthday and that I will be 33 in 6 months (that's assuming the world hasn't ended). The thought of 33 is a little sobering but when I consider the alternative, I'm positively delighted at the prospect.

They say laughter keeps you young, so here is another funny-to-no-one-but-myself joke for your enjoyment (or lack thereof):

Did you hear about the two antennas who got married?
The wedding was terrible, but the reception was terrific.