This weekend I was having dinner'n'drinks with my friend Janis and we were rapping about the usual topics -- love, sex, the existence of God, whether this was the forth margarita, or the fifth -- when she concluded, "love...what a strange thing...it's so...excellently horrible." She may have said "horribly excellent", and at that point, she may actually have been talking about the margaritas, but nonetheless, the sentiment struck me as incredibly accurate and profound.

Later, that same weekend, I envisioned myself and 1-2 other saucy female vocalists fronting a modern-rock band called Girl On Girl, which would draw an audience of horny males hopeful that the name might lead to the action onstage. It wouldn't, but who am I to keep someone from their dreams?

As the weekend played on, I thought about how the beginning of it seemed miles from the end, how the week before seemed a lifetime ago, how A&E appeared to be airing a nonstop Biography of Bob Newhart Sunday night, and how in general, my concept of time was distorted at best and maybe that was why I'm always late, or maybe it's just because I never leave on time.

Still, I could feel my world starting to shift again, and I tossed and turned in my bed, trying to sleep while waiting for something I have yet to identify, that something new that will turn my head and provide a new outlet for my obsessive nature. I thought of the ways I could get myself into trouble, the ways I had, the ways I would, the ways I wanted to...and finally lapsed into sleep, dreaming of all those things, new things, images that evaporated the moment I woke up, only to sit at the periphery of my consciousness for the rest of the day, infusing my existence with that same restless, anxious questioning.

And what does this all mean? I have NO idea.