July 04, 2002 | 2:27 PM

A reoccurring motif in my dreams of late is having to pee and not being able to find a ladies room anywhere. Isn�t that strange? The plot lines in which this motif occur are quite different from one another, but for some reason, having to pee and not being able to find the restroom is the third act denouement in all of my nightly adventures.

I am drunk right now. It is ten minutes after two on the fourth of July. Jenn and John and Jenn'�s friend Julianne are off at John�s family�s home celebrating his birthday. And I am sitting at my computer drinking a rum and coke. I am not invited to this event. Which of course makes perfect sense since I am the (ex) girlfriend, the one who is knocked up, pathetic, drunk, and home feeling sorry for herself.

Last night I wandered into the kitchen and it was perfectly obvious that a discussion was under way about yours truly, since everyone clammed up upon my entrance (and by everyone I mean John and Jenn) and clumsily pretended to be talking about another subject. Now I�m sure that I was not a point of contention, nor were they insulting me behind my back. In fact, I could tell they were speaking of me in concerned hushed voices. Nonetheless, the experience was disheartening and made me enormously uncomfortable. I feel as though I am no longer a person, but a subject. I feel as if I am under a microscope being picked apart and examined. I am not part of the social circle anymore. I am just the favorite topic.

God I wish I were a man. Only women find themselves in this kind of unfortunate netherworld. I�m the pregnant crazy girl who invents fantasies about maybe winning a million dollars and somehow carrying the baby through a high-risk pregnancy and keeping her. John gets to tare off to the beach and attend birthday parties. Is it bad or immoral for him to be doing so? Of course not. What is bad and immoral is that because I have ovaries and a uterus, I am the washed up tragic felt-sorry for fallen ingenue. The butt end of the morality play about what happens to naughty girls. If something goes wrong and I drop dead tomorrow (oh, one can only wish), I shall be the perfect lead off story for the 700 Club.

Godless spawn of mixed marriage recklessly undergoes her fourth abortion and drops dead of a coronary. Obviously, RU-486 is vewwy vewwy bad. (and so is godlessness, y�all, so keep on a prayin� to our lord Jesus H mutherfuckin� Christ, can I get an amen)

None of this is his fault, and yet it so incredibly maddeningly unfair.

If a magic genie emerged from a bottle and gave me one wish, that wish would be to rewind seven years and make a different decision. I would�ve gone to Vassar�no, Wellesly, and done some real work and learned my craft and stayed far far away from this kind of bullshit. Because everything since the age of eighteen has been a massive failure and a horrible waste of time.

I have made so many poor decisions, and now my heart is really and truly broken. That is a cliche, but it happens to be true. I cannot change anything that has happened, but I can overhaul my life so that it never happens again. Or, I can kill myself. Which is appearing to be a better and better decision. I won't do that though, because it is cowardly and I couldn't bear to hurt my family that way.

My whole world has blown up in my face. And I just want some peace. I�m going to do the next best thing to joining the witness protection program. It certainly doesn't matter a whole fucking lot anyway.

Humankind is just a horrible disgusting mess, and love is a lie. I have never before in my life felt so misanthropic and cynical. It's as though I'm living one of those romantic comedies backwards. Instead of the self sufficient world weary loner learning the transformative power of companionship, I have realized that romance, friendship and the concept of "soulmates" is absolutely absurd. I am probably fucking up my body horribly and who knows what kind of repercussions tomorrow will have on my ability to have children in the future. Well, whatever. I never want to love anyone again or get married or participate in the antiquated silly rites of mating our species insists on performing anyway.

I feel as though I am ancient, that I have lived a million sorry lifetimes. It's like that song we wrote together a million years ago

I've grown a thousand years older
You keep getting younger

Who knew how prophetic that would turn out to be.

What a horrible fucking waste. What a sorry mess I've made of things. Me, with my huge fucking acting scholarship and a million dreams. I flushed it all down the toilet for nothing but heartache and four abortions. I am a fool.

If there are any eighteen year old girls reading this, I implore you to learn from my story. Men and romance are an utter waste of time. Go to school. Follow your dreams. Work very very hard. And if after you've attained what you want from the world you happen to meet a nice guy who has also attained what he wants from the world, then go off and have a nice relationship together. But never ever for a moment be that stupid child bride wannabe who states emphatically "But I love him" when confronted with well meaning (and absolutely correct) naysayers.

Tomorrow I will yet again skewer my principles and place myself at risk and guarantee a million more nightmares to come.

Ain't life grand?

Don't answer that.