2003-01-10 :: 12:33 a.m.

i've got about six hours at my parents' to sleep before flying back home, so of course i spend some of them on diaryland

Soundtrack: none

How long it's been (and yet I still remember my original password, my fingers just know the way). I haven't gotten my computer hooked up in my apartment in the city. I'm on at my parents; I came into town to wine and dine some clients of the firm, and I'm back in my old room after shelling out about $200 a head on the corporate Amex and $45 for a taxi home. So weird that we were all talking about how much we loved Fight Club in the middle of all of that, when I came down on the shuttle and will fly back up tomorrow, when we are all shirts and skirts. I can't help but think of Edward Norton putting together his little model airplane kit of a meal, the priceless Ikea scene.

I just noted this: "jordan profile - diary (new) - updated 192 days ago." And I didn't even leave you with a good entry. I just moved and disappeared. You probably thought it was all over. Did you miss me? I have to admit I was kind of touched to see that at least some of you still link to me. You make me want to break all of my old rules. But I still remember them.

One day I'll be back in fuller effect. I guess despite the unbelievable work grind, I'm generally happier than I used to be. (Weak statement, upon reflection, but I definitely the quantifiable happiness of me is, on average, higher.) I often wonder why I find it so hard to write when I am happy, and so easy when I am confused, or upset, or spinning my mental wheels. It's not exactly a new thought, but it's unfortunate. When I am happy I want another happy thing to come along. When I am morose I can wallow on the unpleasantries in life endlessly. For instance, last week I went to a wonderful musical and had three incredible meals with Heather (a third Heather, for those of you counting). But I have not written about such things, here (obviously) or on paper. I barely journal anymore. I say I don't have the time, but maybe I don't have the angst. It's funny though, after all this time, I sit down on the same red chair and type in the same little form and I can feel that little addiction creep back. The little bug.

I wanted an entry on 01-02-03. Oh well.

I rarely check email. Last weekend was the first time I checked my personal account in maybe three months. It was kind of disappointing; mostly spam, but a few of you seemed worried. I'm fine, I'm just overworked and I am not about to access Diaryland from work. So.

I have about three hours before I'll have to get up and fly back in, go to work. The weekend will be good, relaxing, I'll read more of the Eggers novel or maybe some of Kissing In Manhattan. That could be good.

I miss this, this stupid text box, this little land of would-be novelists, the writing, the reading of the entry the next day, the judging of one's own entries and others, the emails, the little petty games that everyone used to play before they all got blogs that had the same sort of blahblah in them, the honesty, the regularity, the documentation of details that I let slip away nowadays. I read on a poster that we forget 80% of what we learn each day. I was thinking that if I live to be in my 80s or so I'll have about 20 years total fully lived and recorded in my brain. It seems to me that when I was writing more I was sharper. For better or worse, I remembered more.

But to say I'll be back, that would be to adhere to the tiresome trajectory of the typical online diary. It's funny how all of it can fall away so fast. You stop reading for a few weeks and all of a sudden it's like you never did. Poof, poof. I forget half the diaries I used to check so religiously. More than half. All of those lives still being lived, probably still being documented in various fashions of various qualities.

I hope you are doing well, whoever you are, wherever you are, whenever you read this. I am going to sleep in my bed now, with the bedposts that are over 100 years old.