Just as I left to go meet my friend tonight, I realized that I didn't have my keys to my apt. I ran back in and futilely searched my desk for my keys, but I knew they were gone.

I traced my steps, calling the deli where I bought my paper this morning, and then the deli where I bought my breakfast, but no luck. I left my keys in a gypsy taxi.

I have never lost my keys. In my life. It something other people do. It's something my dad does every day. Not me, though. Not until today.

Luckily, I tracked my roommate down, just before she left for Vermont for a long weekend. She was kind enough to meet me at home and key me in, kind indeed, as my other roommate is out of town on vacation until Sunday.

When we got into the apartment, my roommate looked at me with a shit-eating grin and made an announcement: today she was informed that her position is being relocated to Utah. I was shocked. "Are you going I asked?" I asked incredulously. "No! Of course not!" she replied looking like she'd struck Goliath with the slingshot.

And then it dawned on me. Two words: severance package. "You bitch!" I screamed. That's right, kids. One of the last of the gainfully employed of my friends, the one who bitches with me about the Retirement Club, will be joining the ranks of the retired. With a phat package and 11 months to find a job within her company. I hate her. And I told her so. She's loving it, that little hooker.

Then she comes in and asks me if I like her new $700 gold bracelot. I am speechless. I wonder if she would chip off a piece for me to melt down use for a gold filling, I think I might have a cavity, but I kept that to myself. Then she waltzes back into my room to show me her new denim jacket. "Like it?" she asks, smiling.

Yeah, I like it. It's fucking sweet. Total old school with a couture fit, I am salivating over it. Where did you get it, I ask, because my trained eye knows this is no GAP shit. "Saks," she drops, "Marc Jacobs." I have to sit down for this, with a groan as I take a load off. "Marc Jacobs," I whined. "You are such a fucking whore! What is your DEAL?" "Severance, baby," she rubs in," and I am going to spend it in style."

"Out!" I screamed. "Out of my room with the Marc Jacobs! I don't even want to see it!"

I am not strong enough to withstand the lives of leisure that surround me. How is this happening?

I am cool. I need to be with the cool kids and none of them are working. They are shopping at Saks and taking off to London for the weekend and moving to foreign countries and dining at Town.

Actually, I wouldn't be doing that if I wasn't working. I would be filling my closets with Kitty Boots. Getting my hair punked out at Prive or something equally decadent.

I would sign up to tutor inner city kids to help them learn to read. Maybe be a Big Sister or deliver Meals on Wheels. I'd ship all these fucking wedding gifts that are junking up my room. Clean out my closets and drop it off at Salvation Army. Get organized. Finish this book I am working on.

Visit friends. Regroup. Paint. Retrace Basquiat's last steps in Alphabet City. Go to museums.

I have a list! These other people don't have lists! They are throwing impromptu pool parties and BBQ's! It's so unfair.

I am way too young to be this bitter. Where's *my* Barry Diller????

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