� David Thomson on Ingrid Bergman, in "The New Biographical Dictionary of Film"

Random facts department: 70 billion people have lived on this planet. Drew Brees' resting pulse rate is 38.

I should be clear about the extent to which my coming around the bend � shut up, I am so � has to do with my friends and the people around me. I'm realizing two things at the same time: that they have been so generous to me and so supportive for so long even as they may have hurt themselves biting their tongues, and that finally I'm embarrassed for how the responsibility of looking after me and worrying about me has gummed up their lives. Consider Rebecca: she lives here, she works here, she wants to entertain her boyfriend here, and even though she told me in the middle of my making bread last night that she didn't want me kneading on her table anymore and I had to throw the dough away because our counters are very high and where the hell else am I supposed to knead it, I am aware of and sorry about having been an impediment to all that; she should not have to wonder whether such a thing as me sobbing on my bed or fetal-positioned trembling on the sofa is going to cramp her style. Consider Vanessa: her boyfriend, a prince of a guy she's gaga for and who has been the main thing making her happy since the spring, is shipping off to what will soon be a war zone during the bleakest loneliest time of year, and like me she is not exactly Miss Popularity of Seattle, and in that context my whining and keening to her about a situation utterly outside my control begins to look a lot like narcissism. Yesterday Catharine said something about how living in Lilly means that she can't be as accessible to her friends in the way that she historically has been (largely, containing multitudes, on call), but this is nothing that hasn't occurred to me, I mean in the sense that I know I've been a sucking pit of emotional demand to her, and the fact that she would be the one talking to me in the key of apology first makes me feel like a spoiled brat and then spurs me to act like a grown-up, to shut up and suck it up and start pulling myself together. And I know that ideally the path to detente with oneself is not paved with shame and the regret of embarrassment, but even Catharine concurs with me that sometimes you just have to say Whatever works. For the time being, anyway. I told all this to my sister yesterday � I can do it in my comedy voice, making "It's embarrassing!" into a refrain; this would seem disingenuous but actually makes me more forthright, since the performative aspect lets me lose myself to myself a little � and her response was, "I think you're making it all up." It is good to have people in your life who aren't afraid to call bullshit on you. To Mary I offered the evidence that making it all up would probably have come in tandem with crying, and, here, I said, listen to my voice, no shake no crack no nothing! Hm, she said. I can appreciate skepticism. So, OK, I will convince her by and by.

I should also clarify the real meaning of Catharine's "hm" on Friday, lest I leave the impression that she was being indifferent or insensitive. We discussed this, she and I. When Catharine said "hm," what she meant was That's wonderful but that is not the issue right now. Via e-mail she has made her opinion perfectly clear on the possible MFA course of action, transmission received zero distortion.

I love Catharine.

Todd called late yesterday morning to see if I wanted to get brunch, and even if Rebecca and I had not already enjoyed a satisfying repast of waffles and bacon, I would not have gone. For a few hours after that I was wondering on and off just how sleazy it would be to ask a female to breakfast after dismissing the one you'd just slept with or whether that was the prerogative of the modern single guy, and what was the approximate probability that such a situation was in fact in play. Then, almost before I started trying to imagine what she would look like � be like � or whether perhaps I've met her, I made myself think about other things, and I'm not lying to you when I say that was easier than I expected. He also asked if I was coming to see his band play that night and I said no. I'll see him next weekend or something. I don't want to undo the small but measurable good progress I've made, and I don't want to put the whammy on the rounding-the-bend stuff. I want to keep thinking about other things.

And the Thomson book, can I just say, it is like pornography to me, it is magnificent, I wish I could eat it, I was right about being in love. I could do nothing but quote from its pages until I'd covered all 963 of them, and I am compiling a list of movies I hadn't known how badly I needed to see. Thomson's favorite actress is Angie Dickinson, which I find endearing and also kind of punk rock of him, and here he is on Harvey Keitel: "There are few American actors whose careers are so intriguing � or so touching. Imagine a film about Harvey Keitel, the actor so good, so persistent, yet so consistently denied at the highest table; ceaseless in his fury, his bitterness, forever hurtling forward in that cold, determined aura that is a mix of menace and resentment. What a role! And probably De Niro would get it."

Today it's all about the movie reviews, and then I see the therapist broker at 5:30 tonight. Wish me luck.