May 07, 2002 | 1:43 PM

Last night John showed me something I had written on the backpage of my copy of Bulgakov's The Master and Marguerita. He was doing it in an attempt to cheer me up. All it did was make me realize that I'm exhausted and tired of all of this. What a huge fucking waste it's been. I took the week off from work. I am sitting in my room amd there are used batteries and cigarette butts and scraps of paper with meaningless writing littering the floor and my desk. Everything smells like roach spray and on the TV right now a gulf game is underway. There's a wooden disembodied reindeer head in a box right in front of me, left over from a time when I actually got a kick out things like that.

Have you read the play 'Night Mother? It's good. You should read it. When I performed it in class, my acting teacher (who played Tom Hanks' mother in the flash back scenes of Philadelphia) told me I was good. Really good. That I could go all the way if I wanted. Little did she know how easy that was for me to play. Because I always wind up feeling exactly like the lead character-- except she actually does it and I've been doing it slowly for years and years, with brief respites.

You got the hopelessness part right, I guess.

Do you see where I'm going with this? It's a big fucking joke and somebody finally caught on.