Why doesn't Andie end up with Duckie at the end of Pretty in Pink? I can't fathom how someone with a crooked face who never says anything interesting wins out over The Duck Man.

The hair. The shoes. The amazing dancing skills. I would pick Duckie anyday. No question.

Cursing Massachusetts:

Apparently, one cannot buy beer or wine on Thanksgiving Day.

I now have to appear at my friend's mother's house empty handed, because I somehow doubt she would appreciate leftover pizza or macaroni and cheese.

Massachusetts is dumb.

Things I am obsessed with right now: The All-Music Guide, Echo & the Bunnymen, Red Stripe with a lime, learning to play pool, Bookbuilders of Boston, V-8, J. Crew jeans, Sondre Lerche, cursing Massachusetts, vodka marinara, weather, The Mittens, bad 80s movies, California, socks, clean sheets, reading The Shining, The Art of the Mix, Neutrogena Body Oil, "Pass the Dutchie," grocery stores, jangly guitar pop c. 1992, Scrabble.

And this is why I love Ms. Alice. How I miss my slutty friends! How I miss the sharing of indelicate details, the casual sex, the addition of notches on the bedpost! The excitement of ending up in bed unexpectedly with someone new and unknown, the discovery of an unfamiliar body. Oh Christ, it's been too long.

Back in Santa Cruz, I was surrounded by sluts, sluts who had no compunction, no remorse, no regret. Sluts who weren't out looking for "something more." Who didn't agonize over whether they slept with him "too soon," whether he'll call or why he hasn't. Awesome, awesome ladies who got some because they wanted some and never looked back. Goddammit, where are my girlies? Why am I now surrounded by women who, while very cool in very many ways, really, really just want a boyfriend? I think that even if I did get laid, I wouldn't want to tell any of them about it, because they wouldn't understand if I didn't give a damn whether I ever saw him again, they wouldn't understand if I didn't remember his name, they would just give me that look. That look they give me when I know they think I'm from another planet.

The fact, though, is this: I'm picky, and I'm not likely to meet someone I actually want a relationship with anytime soon. Why in hell should I let that stop me from getting laid? And why doesn't anyone out here understand that?

Oh, Alice, how I miss you, you salacious, slutty slammerkin.

Interesting statistic of the day:

"With unemployment rates among young people soaring, about 40 percent of recent college graduates intend to move back home." - BusinessWeek

Cheerful thought, isn't it?

The job search is so debilitating. I don't even want to talk about it.

I can't believe it's already November. My mom used to tell me that when I was older, I would wish time didn't pass so quickly, I would wish to be a kid again. Of course I didn't believe her, because I think you're never supposed to believe anything your mom tells you until you're old enough. And as with most other things she told me, she was right. However, I still get carded to buy cigarettes, so obviously I don't yet look older than 18. Sweet.

I read a great book last night: The Blue Bedspread by Raj Kamal Jha. It is sweet, and sad, and lovely, and haunting. A man spends a night writing the stories of his family for his newly orphaned, one-day-old baby niece, who sleeps on a blue bedspread, a bedspread that threads its way through his stories. They are full of circular images, phrases that repeat, quietly, here and there. If you're looking for plot, or traditional narrative, or a book that will answer all of your questions at the end, you won't find it here. You will find, instead, something heartbreaking and diffuse, but beautiful nonetheless.

I have also been reading the stories of Paul Bowles, but I'm not quite sure how I feel about them yet.

I watched Focus last night, and likewise, I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.

I think I'm getting stupid.