This title means nothing.

I've started and erased about three posts in the last few days. I'm not sure what's going on with me. I have too much to say and nothing to say at the same time. I could bitch about work, or my friends, or my family, or the fact that I should know better than to watch Mary Matalin on Meet the Press if I want to have a pleasant Sunday morning.

I turned down an invitation to a Superbowl party where, although it would be full of objectively horrid people, at least there would be people. But why should I subject myself to a bunch of guys who haven't surpassed the mental age of 20 even though they're creeping up on 30 and girls who refuse to eat a slice of bread but eat cereal by the boxful (uh, it's still carbs, you know), drink like fish, and for some godforesaken reason still manage to incite jealousy within me over their ability to seem perfect and carefree. I had lunch with a friend yesterday who has recently become involved with a guy she works with. And she's lost, at least for now, all of her sarcasm, cynicism, and everything we used to bond over. It's like Miranda turned into Charlotte. And I hate Charlotte. I guess I'm happy for her. But I kind of don't want to see her for a while.

I took Chloe on an hour and a half walk today (hence the current snoring on my leg), and stopped for a while at the pier near the 79th Street Boat Basin. I sat there, sort of outside myself, and marveled at the fact that I had become a movie cliche. I half-expected some warbled-voiced songbird to start singing over my head like in those movies where the plot development sucks but when serious music plays you know you're supposed to be feeling something. And just like in those movies, I'm sure I felt SOMETHING but I don't know the hell what it was.