I feel somewhat compelled to note that when I picture Charles Bronson as a young bald boy in a dress, I'm picturing him with his craggy adult face, mustache included.

Did you know that thinking as hard as you can in someone's direction will not guarantee that they'll do or say what you want them to? Or that they'll do or say anything at all, that they'll even remember you? This has been a week of unfortunate lessons. Though, to be fair, I could have thought a lot harder, I could have been more careful with the direction.

A couple of nights ago I made a resolution that if I'm at home but not in bed by 2 a.m. I have to at least be doing something productive. A lot of the time when I'm up all night I'm just reading things I've read a dozen times before, or trying to fix unfixable things, or looking for songs that remind me of people I'll never know again, or hanging my head out of the window looking for the source of the running water I can hear at night. That stuff doesn't get me anywhere. So far I've given the bathroom a good cleaning (poisoning myself slightly with cleaning products) and sorted through all of my clothes, setting aside piles to give away. It's so much better, the feeling that I'm not just killing time, squeezing it to death with my bare hands, but actually using it. What's wrong may still be wrong, but having a clean bathroom always makes things a little better.

So, I've decided to quit being awful about the telephone. I've been using the fact that I've got a bum phone as an excuse to keep from talking to people, and I don't even know why. The few times it does work properly and I can actually be heard by the person on the other end are pretty great. Also, what if I were to burst into flames late one night and tried to call for help, but help couldn't hear me? (They'd probably hear the crackle of the flames though, because Sam insists that even when he can't hear a word I say he hears every little sigh and huff.) In three to five business days a new phone will be here, and I can start being a human being again. For a change.

Man, you know what I really miss? Glee Club rehearsals for the Christmas concert, singing Do You Hear What I Hear. I know that's weird, but I can remember just what it sounded like, so loud and clear, and the way the room smelled like old paper and glue, the way our shoes thumped against the wooden steps as we walked to our seats. It was just a good place to be. I miss the height of my teenage voice, I miss walking out into the sunset afterwards. Which reminds me, the moon looked fake tonight, but it was still nice, and whatever happened to those thunderstorms I was promised?