children have a passion for gambling too.

You already saw it coming.

School and living in the 19th century keeps me distracted. As does the pursuit of happiness and round-nosed pliers.

I had the rug pulled out from under me today. The sky has fallen. The stiches have fallen away. My guts are on the table.

The details will be spared.

To limit your possible choices: I am not a)pregnant b)depressed c)sui/homicidal d)indicted.

I'm still with Matt. I'm still finishing school. I'm still building a house.

But I'm suddenly one friend short.

What happens to the Friendster profile of a dead girl?

Contemplate. I'll be back in February. If I stake a new claim on the digital frontier, I'll let you know.

Good luck.

"It's just...you two are so political."

Hmmm....

"It's the same as why I don't like some Christians: It's not the religion...it's forcing me to be something I'm not."

Oh god...

I've been experiencing a weeklong lump of panic in my gut. Will I be the preacher electrocuted during the baptism?

Howard Zinn whispers to me of the threat of the immediate. So, I've been lavishing in knowledge of the Spanish-American War and the Gilded Age. I think of my childhood fascination with swearing in my head, so that I might find some release without the threat of discipline. Still, I continued to feel guilty and cry.

My B.A. comes in January, and I've abandoned the workforce until then. I secretly have no plans to go back. I have to find something better than this to survive. I love work...but hate jobs. Okay then, now what? I'm exhausted by the very thought of theories regarding sustainable living.

But I have to try. Just as I spend hours in the trenches of World War I and drink cold beers with Hamlet. He likes to drunkenly rejoice, "Remember the Maine!"

How annoying.

Daniel Quinn instructs readers to be the message rather than attempt to spread it. Seems fair to me, but this still seems to pose a threat. I must bite my tongue as others query and scratch their balls: "Why are those kids in Paris rioting?"

I wince, and the thought slips away into the land of mental swearing.

I don't know. Shrug. ............ Blast.

For now, I must learn to make jewelry. It seems to be the ideal first step. If I wish hard enough, I may turn into a glass bead.

God, I wish.

I have speedy internet now, thanks to the recent addition of a hefty satellite dish. This should impress the border patrol helicopters that visit on a weekly basis.

This means I'll be posting more, and visiting more. I effing swear.

For the past month, I've been an intern of domestication. I've determined that Lincoln was a prick. I've developed calf muscles. I've knocked snow off of my boots. I've let the forest give me scars and bruises, undergoing the necessary rituals in order to earn her acceptance. I've wondered why my father never sings and why my mother never laughs.

I've lavished in the constructed Maine-scapes of the L.L. Bean catalog, comparing it to the tattoo'd post office employee who sends my mail...the flannel'd former farmers who comment on my choice of vegetables...the confrontational children with big sticks and forts of pick-up trucks.

Now, I watch various things VIA Google Video, including, though not limited to, crabs racing along shorelines, high school theatrical productions, and Tokyo subways. I've been listening to Nina Simone and Brad Mehldau, flabbergasted by the journeys they have taken me on. I've dreamt of salt and bird flu. I've read about rehabilitating blind elephants. I've felt weight upon my heart, and, subsequently, have been tearing apart the significance of car crashes.

I listen to Francophone radio. I can't bear to hear the news in English, preferring to interpret only 60% of the story. Marked with heavy accents and colloquialisms, it sometimes drops to 40%. All of which is soon followed by a Quebecois folk song, meaning I tend to only retain 5%. This works just fine, for now...