� Vanessa to me on Saturday evening, explaining the philosophy she's trying to adopt instead of constantly worrying about whether she'll get into law school (she will)

Eric: Sometimes I get... worried, you know?
Donna: Well, Eric, you know what? Suck it up.

That's as far as I've gotten in three months of reading it. Because I'm stupid, and because I never read.

� Todd to me on Sunday afternoon, defiantly showing me his bookmark in "The Fountainhead"

The thing that would have broken my heart has already happened: actually, after the weekend I've just had, I feel like those three quotations can stand alone as an entry. The bottom line, though, is the bottom one: he's not getting over it, and I don't think he's going to, and it's pretty clear he doesn't want to. The DL is brain dead and on life support. All that remains to be seen is who will pull the plug and when. Isn't it funny sometimes, the thing that turns out to be the last straw? And that stupid-and-never-read comment, for whatever reason, was it. I've had it with having constantly to justify myself as someone who does not equate stalling near the beginning of "The Fountainhead" with stupidity, I mean with trying to do that because the attempt never works, and then I've also had it with apologizing for whatever it is in me that gives the impression that I'm making that equation. There is nothing like that in me, and I've been apologizing for it anyway for almost a year. I keep typing words or sentences here and then deleting them, so maybe this is all I want to say right now. I've been treated abominably � my trust has been violated, myself and my diary have been slandered, and I've been made to feel horrible about my best qualities and reflexively to keep them in check. Now I'm done. That's all. And look, I still cut him so much slack that I write about these things in the passive voice. I don't know what to feel most sick or sad over. Mostly it's that I've wasted a year of my life.

Here's what your new therapist-to-be will say when you call her up and tell her she's made the cut: Great, let's work together! And you will feel a weird combination of self-conscious and ironic and hostile, because what, the two of you are colleagues now, you're going to build a bridge or something? But this is a defense mechanism, and you must not give in to irony and hostility, not now and not going forward. The reason you're doing this in the first place is to get out of old bad habits and ditto mindsets, so shut up about your bridge already, OK? I did end up going with Number Two and am meeting her at 5:30 on Wednesday. Number Three, whom I met on Friday afternoon, had a very practical, plan-making and goal-oriented approach, which I think would not be good for me because it would let me get away with shirking the other stuff, the other stuff being mostly the kinds of things Number Two had mind-readingly excavated. Plus she bore an uncanny facial resemblance to my estranged ex-roommate Allison. So after that appointment I took a little walk and then called and sewed up Wednesday, and then I came home, where it was the television's turn to read my mind. First was the episode of "Sex and the City" where Carrie is wanting so much to get back together with Aidan but he is not sure. Watching this almost caused me physical pain yet I could not look away, and then she goes to his apartment in the middle of the night and gets him to come down and talk to her, and in the middle of the conversation he yells, suddenly angry, "You broke my heart!" Let me tell you, it is emotionally exhausting to identify with Carrie and Aidan both at the same time -- you'll be damn glad that you already have the therapist thing set up. So I changed the channel to "That 70's Show" in syndication, and what was going on was that Eric sneaked a peek at a passage of Donna's diary and concluded from it that she thought he wasn't good enough for her. Then I got a headache.

More to come on the MFA plan and on the pieces of the weekend that I've left out � I'm tired and I should go to bed. I have a temp job starting Thursday and running through the following week, working as a secretary to two gastroenterologists. Not so exciting, but I'm looking forward to a little lack of excitement, something else to be tired from, just something else to think about. I saw "8 Mile" and must confess to being put out that no one else thinks that "Triumph of the Ill" would be the funniest title ever for a review of it. We have DSL now. My knee's acting up and I can't run for probably about another week. I'm not in denial about the Todd situation, there's just nothing I can say or do anymore. It's a formal feeling, that's all. I'm sure, unfortunately sure, that I'm not finished hashing it out here. And I'm sorry about that. I'm feeling numb again, and very very heartsick. You may be asking whether it's possible to have both of those conditions in play at the same time. Oh yes you can.

Oh, but getting back to John Vanderslice and the song about me, if I may. I have Kelly Hogan's "Sugarbowl" on the MP3 player I take with me running sometimes, which is my excuse for why I was listening to it and trying to do such a thing as getting a read on the narrative context (I mean, don't think I didn't feel self conscious about that too) � in the verses, she's addressing "boys," remembering long-ago incidents in which boys or a boy have figured, but the chorus is different: "Hey there Sugarbowl / My little Miss Solid Gold / You were always a lady, just like a lady should be..." For a long time I couldn't figure out what was going on in this song, and then one day it occurred to me that among the figures from this fondly remembered past, Hogan counts some incipient, now surpassed version of herself. I like that. So please, don't tell me if my hypothesis is wrong.