May 17, 2002 | 1:58 PM

I spent yesternight arguing with myself about whether or not to finish the vodka in the fridge.

I didn�t.

Instead I sat on my rumple sheeted bed surrounded by clothes that need to be put away and empty CD cases, scream-singing along to Robyn Hitchcock.

I wanna destroy you.....

Oh manoman, if it wasn�t for music I don�t know what I�d do. I really don�t. Thank you thank you thank you Robyn Hitchcock. And Guided by Voices. And the Beatles. And Aimee Mann. And Nick Drake. And Van Morrison. And Sleater Kinney. And Nirvana. And ? and the Mysterians. And Liz Phair. And PJ Harvey. And Jimmy Hendrix. And Elvis Costello. And The Ramones. Thank you so much. You have been more helpful to me than anyone I know in real life, and even more helpful than Anne Sexton and TS Eliot and Graham Swift and Sartre and Eugene O�Neil. Because you are all inclusive. You let me sing along. You let me let it out in the safe confines of my own bedroom.

I am, as my mother the former psychiatric nurse and new age therapist would say, rapidly decompensating.

I have become Schrodinger's Cat.