So, Gaffen is leaving for Europe, and then later for Ghana. Kerri is leaving for Ghana, as well. What's up with Ghana? They're both teaching, and I'd almost admire them for their desire to help others, if not for the fact that I'm pretty sure they'll both get a significant amount of beachtime. Instead I just admire them for their genius and savvy.

Me, I'm back at work, where a production designer flaked on me, and within five minutes I had found another, because that's the way it is these days, in this rough, rough industry, in this rough, rough job market, in this rough, rough city. There are good people available to be hired at a moment's notice, and there are bad people like me more than willing to take advantage of the situation.

No, of course I'm not taking advantage of anyone. Calm down. I just mean, it's a good time to be hiring. The reasons why I am bad have nothing to do with work.

Also: This week I decided I'm never going to get married, and today I don't care. During drinks with Gaffen I explained to him my new theory (because I have a million theories): my list of things I don't want in a man greatly outnumbers my list of things I do want in a man. I would probably just end up looking for everything I don't want, and would be completely incapable of finding the good in anyone.

That's this week, of course.

I told Gaffen this theory, and he said, "C'mere. Give me your cheek." I leaned forward, and then he kissed it.

"Why did you want to kiss my cheek?" I asked.

"Because you make so much sense," he said.

Silliness.

I am still not smoking, by the way, in case you were wondering.

I tried to smoke a cigarette the other night, one that the cute stoner boy had left at my house two weeks ago, and I couldn't do it. I lit it, had half a puff, and realized I didn't like the taste of it, nor did I want to spend the next two to three minutes being reminded of him. I tossed the cigarette out the window. It still sits on the sill, but it's been raining for days, and I think it must be entirely useless by now.

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