Last week I filled out a w-4 form to change my number of dependents, but it got sent back to me by payroll because I had used whiteout. So I'm filling it out again, but my pen is running out of ink. I'm too afraid of it being sent back to me again if I switch pens, so I'm pretty down very, very hard.

I have worked at the same job for two years and four months now. From the moment I got my new work email account, I have received emails from "specials@brownies," a brownie gift club. It has never ever occurred to me to remove myself from this mass emailing list, and yet every time I get an email about a new brownie special, I think, Ugh, not again. I wish I'd stop getting these.

I am an infant. This morning I was getting mopey because my boyfriend was blogging and everyone loves his blog and he's much better at it than me (see: a few entries back); I was pouting about it because I was the one who first decided I would create a blog and I mentioned it to him, and he said, "Great idea.... maybe I'll start one too."

Of course it's ridiculous for me to behave as if the incredibly unusual idea of starting a blog was somehow stolen from me. It's like getting mad at someone for moving to California because, hey wait a minute, I was here first, this is MY state. And yet, this is how I operate sometimes.

I have spent a good chunk of my free time today researching anti-wrinkle creams. The bathrooms in our new office are very brightly lit, and I have spotted a new little crinkle between my eyebrows that has me freaked out. It's a crinkle dying to become a deep groove.

Yes, I am a girl.

I also received a book in the mail today that is called "Superfoods" or something like that. I assumed it would be about genetically altered foods, but it actually lists the 16 greatest foods ever, those that contain the highest levels of antioxidants etc. etc. They include green tea, yogurt, blueberries and pumpkin (pumpkin?)

Maybe I'll just smear these foods all over my new wrinkle and see what happens.

Is it wrong that:

1. The Patiots victory over the Colts;
2. Howard Dean's spastic rant; and
3. The demise of Bennifer

has given me more pleasure over the last five days than, say, anything that I've personally accomplished this week? I must learn to put far less stake in the successes and/or grand failures of others.

I talked to an acquaintance last night, who mentioned he had read a bit of this blog. I said, “Oh, really? Cool.” Then I stood there shifting my weight for a good 10 seconds while he said nothing else. He mentioned he had also read my boyfriend’s blog. “God, it’s so funny.” His girlfriend chimed in her acquiescence.

Now, I’d probably agree that my boyfriend’s blog is much funnier than mine (not to mention more consistently updated). But it does go to one of my pet theories, namely that there is only room for one comedian in a relationship. My boyfriend works in comedy and is therefore The Funny One. He opens his mouth in a social situation and friends are poised to laugh. I am expected to laugh too, maybe harder than anyone else, but I am not expected to be funny. I have to fight harder to get a joke heard, and laughs aren’t guaranteed when I do get a joke or two into a conversation. I've given up trying.

I see this over and over again, now that we hang out with a lot of semi-professional comedians. There is the comedian, and then there is that person’s other half, who serves as appreciative audience member. I find it grating.

Wow, was this a funny posting or what?

Things that terrified me when I was five years old:

Asteroids
Teenagers
Q-tips
The PBS announcer who came on during Dr. Who commercials
Ti-fighters
Writing the letter “G”
Axe murderers

Welcome to 2004 Meaghan. Same as 2003 Meaghan. I have dried toothpaste all over the front of my sweater.

(In case you're marveling over my incredibly clever lead [or lede as they say in my almost-profession], don't: I have merely appropriated the opening a Bob Ryan column from a few months back.)

The stains are quite insightly. I tried scraping them off with a letter opener, to no avail. So I decided to commit to the look and promptly dribbled danish all over myself.

Today I had to mail something via registered mail, and dear god was that an ordeal. Got there with my box, was told I needed a different box taped up with special tape that must be moistened with water before it can adhere. So I got shooed aside with my box and tape and sponge while the post office lady helped other customers. Well, one other customer, who seemed to be both crazy and drunk and kept demanding that the police be called because the post office had lost his package and isn’t that a crime just like any other crime?

Then it was my turn again. I asked for a label and was told to write the address directly on the box. I did that but forgot the return address, so I got ushered aside again while I completed that task. Then I turned the box back over to the PO lady only to be chastised because the tape wasn’t adhering properly to the box. She smooshed down the tape for me while I improperly filled out another form.

Halfway through the process I developed a stutter, I was so flustered. Post office procedures really stress me out. (The package in question, by the way, contained my engagement ring, late of almost-being-lost fame, which may have added to my anxiety levels.)

I’ve just returned from a two-week visit to Boston. (This isn’t the only reason for my complete blog absence, but it’s the easiest one to latch onto). It was a pleasure to be around such angry, unhappy, nasty people again. In Los Angeles there’s way too much false sunniness for my taste. You never hear an errant “fuck you” out here. I miss that.