Feeling: smushed.
Listening to: Scarlatti's Sonata in E major
Reading/Watching: More Faustus. Mephistopheles is such a cool name.

It needs no details. You know those days where things happen in sequence to underline one depressing point over and over?

It's like God was whacking me over the head, booming, "YOU ARE SINGLE. YOU ARE VERY, VERY SINGLE. THERE IS NO ONE ELSE ON EARTH UNAFFILIATED WITH HOLY ORDERS WHO IS MORE SINGLE THAN YOU."

Most of the time I try not to let it matter, since I'm usually too busy to notice, but today in particular everyone seemed to be bringing it up until I stared back in God's face (I come up to about his nostril), yelled "All right already!" and drowned my sorrows in a slice of Denny's oreo pie. Meanwhile Briana's admiring Harry Potter waiter grinned owlishly and turned Eddie Izzard on her. I practically expected him to say, 'Ello, Sue... I've got legs! D'ye like bread?

We were giggling about it, and I imperfectly concealed my envy until I could get home.

Then I packed up my portable CD player, a mix disc, and my computer speakers, and carried them down into the auditorium. I even took the time to move all the chairs and piano out of the way (slam dancing is fun, but self-injury is not so great), then turned the volume up to max and started whirling. It's better than tae-bo.

Plus, dancing like a spastic freak is something I can do for an hour without getting sick of it. It's the one thing that can make the world disappear, where all that matters is the sway in my hips, and the swing in my arms (though not so much the feet. The feet are what make me Jerry Lewis instead of Janet Jackson).

I wound up on the floor, my back to the cool tile, listening to Weezer sing "Jamie," and having a quietly therapeutic cry. It was just what I needed.

In nine minutes it will be Friday. And things will be better then.

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