I'm sitting here with a Biore strip on my nose. It must be a Monday. I walked out of the bathroom wearing it, and asked my roommate, "Don't I look cute with it on? Aren't I cute even with this on my nose?"

He burst into laughter. "No," he said, "And I'm taking a picture of you right now."

There are limits to my cuteness. Lesson learned.

I'm tired tonight. I hustled all morning, over to a potential client this morning in the Wall Street area, and then back up to my office in midtown, where I worked until 7 PM. I've started working on some new stuff for the site, to be blown out over the final four weeks. Just for fun. Just because I'm like that. Just because I'm all Biore and shit.

Doesn't "Biore" sound like it should be an adjective indicating chicness? Something girls would whisper about a stylish girl wearing the latest in strappy halter tops and sunglasses technology, as she leaves a bathroom in a club.

"She's soooo Biore."

Ooh la la!

My roommate thinks it sounds like it should be either a new lipstick color or the name of a spa you send your girlfriend to for five days, after you do something to piss her off and want to apologize.

Yea, we like think out of the box in this apartment.

Anyway, I promised a few people I'd update tonight, but there's not really that much to say. I'm just finding myself kind of boring, and the things that are interesting I can't really write about right now.

There's been some boy stuff, in that I'm banishing them all from my life for the time being. I need a break from it. I'm hoping that no one will find me attractive in Eastern Europe. I'm not their type, right? Aren't all those Czech girls skinny and blond?

I discussed this with a former college classmate I ran into in the park on Sunday, while I was waiting for Dante to show up with the fat edition of the NY Times. Andy Bragen is an aspiring playwright, who describes himself as a workaholic. I believe him. He had a thick stack of papers with him that he was rewriting. ( I've got nothing to show but a bunch of whiny webpages, which I suppose I could print out and run around with, but why?)

I only run into him once a year, and when we see each other we usually spill everything quickly and efficiently. Us Hopkins grads are so professional. He told me that the relationship he had just been starting the last time we met had recently ended. I told him of the events of the last month - which had involved not one, not two, but three different men! (No, not all at once you pervs.) - and concluded with, "I'm not interested in anything with anyone for a while at all."

I shared my Eastern European theory with him, adding, "I'm staying away from Italy if possible. I'm just going to swing in, go shoe shopping in Milan, and get out. Those Italian men like to grab me."

He disagreed with me. "Why? Because you're zaftig? I'm sure you're going to be considered attractive wherever you go." He smiled at me, then, and it made me feel sort of nice, not in a sexy way, but in a nice, friendly, way. I think that's the first time he's ever given me a compliment, and I've known him for almost thirteen years.

Still, I'd like someone to confirm the possibility of me being considered totally unattractive abroad. I'm hoping for the best, even though some might consider it the worst.

The park was lovely, though. Dante showed up soon after, paper in hand, and then his friend Maurice came and dished a bit of new media gossip. Maurice and I found a common bond in our love for Lifetime movies. ("Lifetime, the television channel for women with bad southern accents" or "Lifetime, the television channel for women and gay men who love women with bad southern accents").

"Every movie title has the word 'deadly' in it," I said.

"And they all star Valerie Bertinelli or Tyne Daly," he said.

"Or Tori Spelling!" I added with glee.

Oh, how I love being a cliche!

Whatever. Fuck you.

See, this isn't going anywhere. I'm angry because I don't get to smoke anymore, and I'm angry because I'm still at the same job, six months later, and I have a month to go, and I have to create new tasks to entertain myself, and then all of a sudden I'm still at work at 7 at night. And I'm angry at most of the men in my life, too.

I can't get to Europe fast enough, and I can't tell you how tired I am of writing the same thing over and over again. It is so much better for everyone involved if I just sit in the corner by myself while everyone goes outside for recess and plays kickball. I don't feel like getting hit on the head again on the playground. I'm waiting it out till summer vacation.

Don't tell the teacher, ok? It'll be our little secret.

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