Wednesday, Oct. 29, 2003 - 11:32 a.m.

5:15 a.m. Some mornings upon awaking I like to lay in bed and make a mental listing of goals I’d like to set for myself that are achievable throughout the day in an attempt to feel a continual proud sense of self and accomplishment.

5:16 a.m. Wide awake and feeling extra super and knowing it’s going to be the best day ever I decide to push the envelope and really stretch myself and set my sites high on some aspirations normally a tad out of my reach. Pondering an exhausting catalogue of potentials I make contract with myself to succeed in achieving the following:

1. I will arrive at work no later than one hour late.

2. During a road-rage tantrum my baseball bat will remain in the trunk of my car.

3. In a buzzed state of evaluation I will not have a fourth martini at lunch.

4. Should I come across any, I will not flirt with straight waiters.

5. After coming down from my liquid lunch I will not drown my sorrows with more than three bags of king-sized peanut M&M’s (and one Twix).

6. The Boss will not overhear me calling him a fat bastard.

7. No matter how hard I try I will not lose weight.

8. I will not go on and on to anybody who’ll listen about what a jerk my ex is and how selfish he was and how stupid I was to stay with him for 13 years and how insane he’d get and have major melt-downs over the most ridiculous things like the time he was convinced one pant leg was shorter than the other to such a noticeable degree that he wouldn’t go to my best friends birthday party because everyone would be able to tell and he wouldn’t change into one of the 35 other pairs of varying shades of gray dress pants he owns because they either didn’t fit right, too small or too big, or they didn’t go with the shirt he was wearing and he wouldn’t change his shirt because he just spent fifteen minutes ironing it and didn’t want to iron another one and didn’t want me to iron another one because he said I was too hard on his clothes and couldn’t run the risk that I’d scorch one of his precious shirts that he couldn’t possible replace because Gucci doesn’t make that color blue anymore in a slim fit so I told him that if he didn’t want to go to the party that was okay I’d go by myself but then he’d pout cause he didn’t have anything to do and didn’t want to stay home alone because it was Saturday night and there was nothing on television and would I go to Blockbuster for him and pick up a couple of DVD’s and would I also mind stopping at the grocery store and pick up some Ben & Jerry’s and since I had plans and was going out maybe he’d call his friend, Bruce, and see if he wanted to come over and hang out with him so he wouldn’t be bored and I said okay because I'm an idiot.

11:15 a.m. Shit, I’m more than an hour late for work!

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