Well, my mother hadn't updated her virus check in like two years. Her computer was running very slowly and so I decided in my infinitive wisdom to Fix The Problem. This became my Mission. I was going to at least improve my mother's computer. I updated the virus signatures and ran the test. It came back with something like 143 viruses. Thing is it wouldn't delete them. Finally I devised a system where I would stop that scan while it had only 6 or 7 viruses and then delete them. That worked. For a while. Got it down to about 60 viruses. And then the scan refused to work at all. I decided to shut down the computer and restart it. It wouldn't boot up. So now my mother is having some techno wizard who helped her a few months ago come out and figure out where I fucked up. Apparently my mother's computer worked better when it was broken.

Well I did at least learn that I shouldn't pursue a career in IT so I suppose it is not a total loss.

Then my mother's cable went out entirely. So for two days I was trapped in an isolated house in the coutry with no TV and no computer.

It was like my childhood all over again.

But I digress.

Sunday my dear Princeton took me out to dinner. Princeton being Princeton asked me all sorts of questions about what I want to do, and, of course, I started and ended in tears. Poor thing, he kept saying, I hope this isn't upsetting you. I wanted to tell him, it's not you, it's what I'm talking about it, or thinking about it. I mean, here I am 31 and totally collapsed. You know, I kind of sold myself on the idea it was OK not to have a boyfriend as long as I had job. And now no job and no boyfriend. When Eric first left I was ddicted to mornign talk shows. I had the "At least it's not me" virus. Sure I didn't have a man, but on the other hand I wasn't 16 years old and paternity testing 5 different men either. I didn't have any credit card debt (still don't). But the truth is I could have been living my life for some utter twit and ended up in exactly the same place. OK I wouldn't have gone to Paris and walked in on my paramour's brother having sex on the grand piano, but really I could do without that memory anyway.

And what's actually worse, I don't have any passion for anything. I mean I talk to these directors at places like Mingle and Mangle and it's invigorating to hear them talk about these projects that they've worked on for years. But then I suddenly feel this emptiness. Princeton kept saying, "What do you really want to do?" I have no idea. I'm pretty much out of rage even. I love to write and watch movies. I like to crochet. I like doing research. I love snuggling. But passion? Yeah, I think I'm pretty much out of it at the moment.

Right now I'm reading After Many a Summer A Swan Dies by Aldous Huxley because you know even my depressions need to have some sort of literary context. The beginning of the novel rather reminds me of The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh a personal favorite (and the inspiration for the first episode of Six Feet Under). What I like about Huxley is the frame of his novels are always the same-some outsider is suddenly thrust into a new culture and environment-although his dystopic vision of Brave New World is the most famous, I also rather like the utopia he depicted in Island. If you haven't read the Devils of Loudon, his investigation of a French nunnery that suffered a sudden epidemic of demon possession is definitely worth reading. I would recommend you skip his rather lengthy digressions into Eastern philosophy, but aside from that it's a fascination examination of hysteria, manipulation, politics, and religion.

If you've read After Many a Summer, I would like to ask a question. Is it me or is Dr. Andrew Weil actually modelling himself after Dr. Obispo? In the novel, Dr. O is obsessed with longevity, and one of the things he claims leads to a shortened life is reading the news a theory that Weil espoused in one of his books (Weil's reasoning was as follows: not reading the news leads to reduced stress which in turn leads to a longer life). I have to say I give more credence to Obispo's theory that the secret of longevity is somewherein the intestinal flora of carp than Weil's spontenous healing theory, which is just downright offensive to anyone who follows his chain of reasoning to its legitimate end. Is it me or should I be nervous when one of the best selling medical writers actually seems to be parroting advice dispensed by a fictional doctor in a satirical novel published in 1939?

Am I wrong in thinking that's a Bad Sign?

But I'm all unfocused. So I guess this post mirrors my actually psychological reality. Scattered.

At dinner one of the things that Princeton kept saying to me is, "How do we get you over this whole disability thing?"

My whole life has been about how to get over this whole disability thing. . I mean it isn't just the disability, it's a constellation of factors. The disability paired with a striking physical appearance which leads people to stare, laugh, whisper, point, and out right ridicule (feeding my feelings of self consciousness and low self steem), my father's depression and paranoid delusions, my parents reaction to my disability which fostered an intense distrust and fear of abandonment by others especially men, my own mood disorder (chronic depression and panic disorder), my PTSD ( post traumatic shock) which manifests in dissociative trance, flashbacks, free floating anxiety, and insomnia, my self conscious and overly sensitive nature, the real physical limitations of living with a physical impairment, and the ultra competitive high stress environment of NYC.

And what's really frustrating is I know people who are far crazier, far less wel adjusted, far less attractive, far less educated, and far less together than I am, and they still manage to get married-to have boyfriends. People keep asking me "What happened?" I don't fucking know! I was born under a bad sign I guess. I mean serial killers get more marriage proposals during their trials than I have during my entire existence. But I suppose in a world like that there is a badge of honor in being single. The I'm not fucked up enough to be a relationship badge of honor.

But the answer is if I was loved, if I had someone to come home to like I used to have, if I felt beautiful like I did then, I would be over it by now.

And you can say it's wrong and you can threaten to send me copies of He's Just Not That Into You or the Rules or The Second Sex but it's not going to change that Fact. Because that's what it is. A Fact. You want to know what would make me feel better? Having someone to come home to.