08.24.02 - 9:58 p.m.

Feeling a tad like Carrie Bradshaw type-type-typing away on my Powerbook late at night in a camisole with my hair pulled back, drinking a glass of wine, feeling a little lonely and old as Carrie's been feeling lately, and just a wee bit melancholy as one of the first cool breezes pulling this season into the next blows through my window, listening to the cars shusshhh past on the wet street below.

But I have no black bra unfashionably peeking out the back, and Carrie would not be caught dead in these baby blue Hanes 3-pack WalMart boxers, so I guess that's where the comparison ends. And my hands are not nearly as scary and man-like as poor Sarah Jessica's, so that's another thing. But you, dear nonexistent reader, know all too well that I am apt to muse on the meaning of life every once in a while. A girl can't live on bread and Banana Republic alone. (Sorry - I couldn't write Blahnik. It's too clich�d, and besides, it's not yet in my price range. Sometimes even BR isn't in my price range.)

I have no concrete deep thoughts tonight. I'm just alone, a little unwell (which defeats the purpose of the wine) and restless.

I can see directly into the apartment next door from our bedroom window, just as they can see into mine. I can hear the clank and rattle of glass into trash cans from the restaurant downstairs. Sometimes the heavy scent of fish and garlic winds upward through the air. It's not really my place, just a temporary haven for my stacks of boxes and too many pairs of shoes, but everywhere I live leaves a mark. My residence history is embarrassingly long. Nine months here, half a year there. No leases broken, just replacements, sublets finished and then pack 'em up, move along.

Dad is calling with questions about my credit report and his bankruptcy spots on it. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to participate right now.

I feel temporary a lot of the time, not fully committed to many things. I have a hard time envisioning myself at the same job in six months, even if I'm completely happy and know I could, might, will go far. I'm just not used to seeing things past a semester, unfamiliar with things that don't have a set end date. I like finite little chunks of time. One episode, 24 hours, one TV season.

And so, if I were Carrie, this is where I'd pose my little question: "If our dreams come with expiration dates, is it fair to say that life has a shelf life?" or something equally punny and just a little profound. But I'm not really asking questions here, I'm just debating my own character as I so often do, and setting myself up for some embarrassing reading a year down the line.

"The blues are because you?re getting fat or maybe it?s been raining too long -- you?re just sad, that?s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you?re afraid and you don?t know what you?re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"

Still trying to give the damn cat a name.