02.24.03 - 7:04 p.m.

I have a little under a half hour in which to decide whether or not to go to yoga and to hash out my typically morose thoughts. I fucking hate the Rembrandt tooth whitening system - every time I try one of their products, it does something awful to my system. First the Quick Whitening goo made my gums burn; now their damn swab or whatever it's called is causing a painful heartburn-like sensation beneath my xyphoid process. Not even a Tums and leftover bunny pasta can make it feel any better, and I'm not sure it's safe to contort my digestive organs while experiencing such distress.

Maybe if Rembrandt would stop sending me promotional samples, this wouldn't be happening. I have no self-control. It's not my fault if they wave their products temptingly in front of my face, is it? A lesser woman would have sued.

And the other conclusion I've reached today is that I hate writing. I really, truly, do. No - let me rephrase that. I hate interviewing. I hate the constant think tank pressure of story ideas, solutions ideas, stupid studies and pointless bits of info. I feel intrusive and panicky anytime I talk to someone on the phone - I have no idea what I really want or need - and it just makes me miserable.

So I guess I want to be a copy editor. I don't know, I never really wanted to be this. I wanted to be left alone in front of my computer all day, but design jobs weren't happening, I wanted to be away from Jack and the idiot movie industry altogether, I wanted something to do with this silly degree that continues to cost me money. But if I have to pry information out of one more doctor/psychologist/PR contact, I'm going to lose it.

I don't really want to leave this magazine. I don't want to be without a job again, that's for sure. But I need a solution.