I'm in hell

I've been working on the same freelance story for days. It should be an easy company profile, but I'm overwhelmed and can't seem to get my brain to work. It may have something to do with it being my third in the last two months, with one due last Monday over which I sweated bullets, blood, and even a puppy eyeball or two.

So last night in a fit of panic-stricken pique I practically ran to the gas station across the street and bought a pack of cigarettes. Bart tried to dissuade me, saying all the right things -- "this won't make you feel better," "just wait a little bit" -- but nothing could stop me. I opened them, stuck one in my mouth, and lit it. Before I even inhaled, the smell woke me up. I thought how ridiculous I was being. I am finally past the point where I miss smoking, and here I was about to re-addict myself. I wanted a magic wand, not a cigarette. So I put it out and threw the pack over the fence. (The halfway house people will be overjoyed that the cigarette fairy is back.) Even the slight residual taste grossed me out. Fortunately I was able to get rid of it with the help of four or five Godiva truffles, courtesy of my wonderful dad who sent them early for Valentine's Day. I said I stood at the edge of the cliff and looked over but didn't jump. My friend Deborah corrected me and said it was more like I slipped off, but got caught on a branch and managed to claw my way back up.

Anyway, the only good thing about today is that we published a profile I wrote about Bryan Goodwin, a cool student here at Berkeley who happens to have grown up in a wheelchair. It also took me days to write, because of this strange psychological thing I am currently inflicting on myself, but at least I am pretty happy with it. Also, I like this picture of Bryan I took in his new shirt and cute red wheelchair. (Bart spiffed it up in Photoshop for me.) You can't see it, but he has a "Boys Suck!" sticker on the back of it.