Thursday, Mar. 27, 2003 | 12:43 AM

What a weird weird day.

A weird wonderful beautiful day. Especially the end.

Rehearsal was�it was just AMAZING.

(Forgive the redundancy)

I LOVE THIS FUCKING PLAY. THIS IS THE BEST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.

After rehearsal, we all went over to the Good Life and drank and drank and drank and talked and bonded. Beautiful. I love the family feeling that develops in a good cast.

AND�

I had the most wonderful conversation with Mr. Wonderful. About Wim Wenders. And The Hours. And all sorts of other things. One of those leaning in close across the table, furiously clutching your martini conversations. Drowning in those eyes. God. GOD. I am so smitten with him.

He has a girlfriend. And he loves her. The way he talks about her is beautiful. Even if he didn�t have a girlfriend, nothing would ever happen between us. I am not pretty enough for the likes of Mr. Wonderful�not his type at all. And that�s OK. I�m enjoying the dull ache of longing that lives in my belly. It�s nice to want so much. I�m never going to be on the good end of a reciprocated crush�I�m not pretty. And that�s Ok. I�m loveable in so far as the intimidating talent that I�ve some how inherited. And that�s fine. People wanna make out with me after they hear me sing or see me deliver a monologue. If it weren�t for that no one would look twice at me, and that�s something I�ve come to terms with. The same way a gorgeous albeit not so smart woman has to come to terms with just being wanted for her body.

But I want Mr. Wonderful so badly. His mouth when he talks about beautiful things. The way his lips curl. His great giant beautiful brain. I wanna sink into those arms and fall fast asleep against his heaving chest.

It�s remarkable. And it hurts. It hurts every time I feel this way �cause it always drives home how unlovable I am, how unpretty. I mean I�m crushable every time I sing, that�s when people love me, in that awe insired way. But I�m not cute. I�m not pretty. I�m always going to be that girl-- you know the one. If I have a boyfriend, I�ll watch him hit on all the cute girls while I sit on the sidelines twiddling my thumbs. Nobody has ever really been in love with me for who I actually am. And probably no one ever will be. This is my life.

Oh boo hoo hoo. People are dying. People are being murdered. This isn�t a tragedy. I have a great job. A good apartment. Marvelous friends. Lots of make-out sessions. Who cares if nobody will ever really fall in love with me. Do I want that anyway?