*~*

You know, I just want a good cry. Here I went out a couple of weeks ago and bought these really soft tissues and I gots nothin'. Nada. Zilch. Zero. I haven't cried since 9/12. What the hell is up with that?!

Ok, so I teared up slightly on 9/13 but I found my focus to avoid public breakdown.

I hear about people having nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat or sobbing. I don't even DREAM. I have no sex drive. I'm back on top of my shit at work.

Been here a week now, waiting for a mission, getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Charlie squats in the bush, he gets stronger.

I'm AB, All Business. I'm in full-crisis mode. I am really good at crisis. In fact, I excel at crisis. I am a tower of strength.

But what's the point of being strong if you can't do anything? The only productive thing I've done is order a gas mask.

I did. I know you think I'm crazy. I don't care. My roommate said, "Listen, if there's a chemical attack here, you don't WANNA be the only one left standing," but after talking to Toastgirl, I'm thinking I want that option!

I'm also stocking up on bottled water. Laugh now, people, but we are fighting a war this world has never fought before. I plan on being prepared.

My friend F. offered to give me a gun. I had to draw the line. Although, I will admit, when he suggested a sexy little Charlie's Angels pistol that fits in a baby Gucci, I was tempted...but no. A pistol isn't going to help when I am facing down Anthrax or a car bomb.

*~*

When I was here, I wanted to be there, when I was there all I could think of was getting back into the jungle.

I can't stop looking at pictures of the people I knew who are missing. I can't stop. How could they be gone? How could they? I was just with them...I just saw them...they range in ages 28-34. People that age don't die en masse.

*~*

My life has become a re-write of a bad Hugh Grant picture, "Three Memorials and a Wedding." I have back to back ceremonies this weekend.

*~*

Token celebrity involvement is laughable to me. Cameron Diaz choked up over words on a Teleprompter. Meg Ryan manning phones. Please....PUH-lease.

Oprah, James Earl Jones. Why don't you put my pregnant widowed friend on stage with her 2-year old and let her tell you about the last time she heard from her husband. When he said he didn't think he was going to make it and that he loved her for the last time.

*~*

I used to think if I died in an evil place then my soul wouldn't make it to heaven. Well, fuck. I don't care where it goes as long it ain't here.

I told my parents that I don't believe in God anymore.

I did. I want to believe in God, I do. I really do. I want to believe that all of those people are in Heaven. But what if they aren't? My GOD, what if they aren't?? What if that's it? How could an all-powerfull all-loving God let 19 men take the lives of more than 2500 hard-working, mostly young people? And how can he let Jerry Falwell live?

*~*

I sat in a restaurant last night with two other tables. One a table of three lingering over dinner, the other Paul McCartney and Heather Mills. And I didn't even care. Not the slightest bit interested.

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If I say it's safe to surf this beach, it's safe to surf this beach!