I always suspected I was a voyeur, from my childhood days when I strained my neck to see into other families' picture windows at dusk. My mother knew. She closed the curtains firmly every night just at sunset to isolate our world. People become so wrapped up in their own lives that it's startling and fascinating when they get the chance to peek into somebody else's.

I guess I've never been protective of my own privacy because it's never been violated. There was a time, not long ago, when I felt my life was too private. I longed for some fascinating person to suddenly take enough of an interest in me to scrutinize every detail of my life--I pranced in front of the mirror and pretended I was charming and oblivious, like an Audrey Hepburn character capable of infecting another soul with my quirkiness.

So I guess an online diary is just another way to keep myself interested. I'm writing for myself, yet it doesn't bother me--in fact, it's kind of titilating--that other people might read it.

Truth be told, there are a couple of other reasons I'm doing this. I'm a writer. A lot of people say that, but I really am--it's what I do for a living. But I also have lots of stories in my head, and used to be a really good fiction writer. I don't do it much anymore. And I want to find my voice again. A diary is one way to do that.

And what's the other reason again? Um ... I'm bored. Yes. I need something else to keep me preoccupied. Checking my personal e-mail and reading all my junk mail isn't keeping me interested anymore, and there are only so many times a day I can look at fuckedcompany.com and take pleasure in the demise of the very industry that keeps food on my table. So this is a pleasant distraction for me.

Anyway.

A. (my shiny new live-in boyfriend and soulmate) is in LA covering the E3 gaming trade show for his magazine. I was never cut out to be a single girl. Last night I had dinner with Brooke and was home by 10, and ended up falling asleep on the couch watching Sports Night reruns on Comedy Central. Pathetic. More pathetic: The Sports Night reruns made me cry. I am a true Aaron Sorkin junkie--no pun intended.

Well, there you go. Voyeurs of the world, unite and take over. I should go earn at least some percentage of the ridiculous wages I'm paid. This feels good, liberating. And it's Friday, and tomorrow night I get to play hostess to 25 people, most of whom have never met each other before. So I push on.