I'm partying tonight. I'm on my second bottle of sugar-free black cherry soda. I've had my sushi and I've drank four or five glasses of spring water with lemon freshly squeezed into the cup at my own hands. I'm high; as high as I can get: happiness, for me, these days, doesn't come at the end of a bong, or from a bottle of bourbon or a line or twenty of speed and or coke. I'm clean and serene, and happy as hell about it. I won't black out tonight and wind up in the drunk tank, covered in blood and puke.

Praise the Lord. I give thanks to my higher power. You don't have to get drunk tonight, baby.
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I'm alone tonight. Both of the younger kids are in Florida; the older kid is finishing his hip hop cd and girlfriend is in California for a few weeks. Of course, I still have the dogs and the cat. And Sylvia.
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The Sylvia that I said, earlier, that I was sleeping with, tonight, because my girlfriend is out of town is the poet and writer, Sylvia Plath. I'm curled underneath the covers with her phenomenal book, "The Bell Jar." This book reads kind of like "The Catcher In The Rye," only the pace is faster, the author's vision is clearer; no small feat: I love "The Cathcher In The Rye."

I love you too, baby. You don't have to get drunk tonight.