10-5-01 - 8:55 p.m.

Before I begin, go read this (click) because I like it.

Well-a I would walk. Five. hun. dred. mi-les. And-a I woulda-a walk. five. hun. dred. more.

Damn that song is catchy.

Sharon has called me about 14,000 times this week, just a few thousand more times than George. Tonight she called to guilt-trip me into going to look for a new washing machine with her. I agreed to meet her and George at Sears. When I arrived, she took one whiff and said, "You're smoking now?"

My urge to say "Duh" was very great. I instead sufficed with a quick nod before hastily changing the subject.

And so we looked at washing machines. For them. I don't have room for a washing machine and I don't want one. A British man who spoke and looked exactly like John Cleese helped them decide which was the right machine for them. I spent my time in the next department, rearranging the numbers on the price signs to make customers think Sears was having a better sale than advertised.

When Ward and June George and Sharon had finished taking notes and comparing warranties and energy efficiencies and were ready to leave, they offered me an ice cream cone. I refused and drove off home. I don't understand why they're suddenly treating me like I'm five. They used to respect my privacy and now they offer me ice cream. I can buy my own ice cream, and I can eat it in the privacy of my own home. Problem solved.

Have you ever been alone on a long stretch of road and had the urge to just zoom down it as fast as you can get your vehicle to go? I indulged myself tonight in that respect. For about two miles I was doing somewhere between 85 and 90 with my super-brights glaring and my windows rolled down. It was such a rush that I wished I had had a convertible to do it in.

Is the "wild child" from my high school days re-awakening? Maybe so. This time I intend to keep her sober. I know it can be done. I just need to keep busy.

Something I almost forgot to mention: I checked my voicemail earlier today. Andrew had left me a message saying I owe him $50 to help pay for repair fees on a window we smashed. When did I smash a window? With what? Why? Maybe it's a clue to unravelling the mystery of last Wednesday's little night out...but I hope not.

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