Friday, Nov. 14, 2003 | 10:46 AM

YEA!!!!! I wrote Brian Posehn, a writer/cast member of Mr. Show a letter and he wrote me back!!! First Michael Bleiden and now Brian!!! I am so glad that my heroes are relatively unfamous and easily accessible.

Yesterday I elected not to go to karaoke and instead Lynn and I had a chick night drinking PBR and doing our nails.

Today is payday and I am running to Newbury Comics right after work to buy the David Cross DVD and The Dresden Dolls album.

You know how artists have bad periods? Like Bob Dylan had that time in the 80�s when he was a religious nut and all of his albums were shit? Well I sort of feel that way about the past couple of years, except not about art�just about life in general. Like from 1999 until the beginning of 2003 I was insufferably boring and crazy. I look back on that period of my life and cringe at how excruciatingly lame I was. I just hope that�s the lamest I ever get. I want to go back in time and apologize to myself for having made such idiotic decisions, and to anyone who was unfortunate enough to have met me at that time. It�s funny�it�s like that whole four or so years was this detour into an alternate reality that wasn�t supposed to be my life�like when you�re playing Mario Cart and you start driving backwards and that little guy helpfully lets you know you�re going nowhere. I was so out of whack and off track and I couldn�t see the forest for the trees. I felt like a half a person, you know? It�s so nice to just be happy (basically) and have control over my own life, and feel comfortable and attractive and loved.

I re-read some of the Saga, which I know a lot of people really like, but basically I have come to the conclusion that it�s a piece of shit. I mean there are some good things about it. I think I did a nice job skewering the idiotic telemarketing firm I worked for. And occasionally the writing was good. But at the time I wrote it, I wasn�t nearly as self aware as I thought I was (and for that matter I�m probably not now either). Reading it and looking back on the maudlin self aggrandizing selfish and na�ve manner with which I conducted myself from the ages of about 22 to 25 literally makes me want to vomit. Most people look back on their high school years and marvel at what idiots they were. In high school, I was pretty damned cool if I do say so. I really didn�t care what anyone thought. I was a DJ at an indie rock radio station. I directed and acted in tons of theatre. I published a chapbook of poetry. I had jet black hair and wore ripped fishnets. I fooled around with whomever I damn well pleased. I was voted most likely to be famous. I sort of skipped the lame stage and saved it up until my early 20�s. I feel like I�m doing everything backwards. Now when most people are kind of settling down and in, I for the first time am appreciating the freedom I have to do whatever the fuck I want, and anything that remotely smacks of yuppydom or domesticity makes me really ill at ease. I remember a couple years ago that I was looking online at wedding dresses with the idea that probably within three or four years I�d be married. And now, the very idea of marriage is repellent. I mean think of it-�you fucking waste thousands of dollars to bullshit in front of an alter and then do the macarena with a bunch of people you only see at holidays and big events. Then you�re never supposed to sleep with anyone else ever again. Totally totally gay.

I just don�t care about any of that shit. I don�t care about placemats or table cloths or using the right dish soap. I don�t care about cocktail parties. I don�t care about how many dollars I own. I don�t care about my credit report. I don�t care about the pictures on the wall being crooked. I don�t care about having you over for tea. I don�t care what happened in the last episode of Dawson�s Creek. I don�t care about getting ahead in today�s economy. I don�t fucking care. I just don�t. It�s all dick.

What do I care about? Love, fucking, theatre, comedy, music, and mood altering substances. The rest of it can go fuck itself.