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2002-04-24 - 7:12 p.m.

The doorbell rang this afternoon, interrupting my nap. I had been right in the middle of some nightmarish dream where I was driving the speed limit in my Saab to the tune of Enyaís Only Time. It started with me exiting my building on a gorgeous sunny day. The beep of my car alarm disabling was drowned in a synth swell but the parking lights flashed in time to the music, like a video. I drove responsibly through rush hour traffic, never exceeding the speed limit and shedding a tear at some particularly moving part. I expected at any moment to pull up to some small white house in the suburbs with a picket fence where Steve from product marketing would greet me with Enya playing some obscure Gaelic instrument in the living room. When I swung the door open in groggy annoyance that who should it be but Alanis Morrisete. Suddenly beset with a panic I was sure that she knew all about the mocking that Iíve done, both at work and in my social circle plus the diary and email comments. She was here to sully those clean hands on my face and then wipe them clean on the good towels. No doubt Harvey Keitel was lurking about somewhere with a roll of Benjaminís to make it up to my housemates. But sheís a pacifist I thought, although it may be impossible to reason with her, as Iíve read and heard some of her interviews. And I didnít have any pot in the house to buy her off, or maybe there was some hemp jewelry that my sister braided for me somewhere. These odd tidbits of information finally filtered through my brain and I took a closer look. It wasnít Alanis at my door, although she could totally play her on TV. No, it was Melissa who wanted me to help her get to her personal goal yadah yadah yadah. Still bewitched by her close resemblance, and still a little frightened by the dream, I ordered some inane entertainment magazine and sent her on her way, before she commented on how ironic everything was not, or began ranting about the way I broke up with her. Or burst into song thanking me, India, providence, etc. I was too keyed up to go back to napping, so I kind of sat around disgusted with myself. I was tempted to take up smoking again, just so I could sit around in my boxers and an undershirt, a nearly empty bottle of scotch on my nightstand as I chain smoked Marlboroís, watched Judge Judy and wonder why I was alone. I suffer a little bit from the impression that smoking is cool. I know that itís not; itís a foul disgusting habit that I unfortunately find unbelievably sexy. It brings to mind all those femme fatales of the 40ís and 50ís, tough, smart women who still needed a man to make everything better, one they could banter with in flirtatious splendor. So we would trade these jeu de mots to hide our growing affection for each other and I would be hurt but expecting it when she would ultimately betray me. I need to get out more.

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