Late last night, my radiator actually managed to achieve sentience.

I lay in bed reading, and I realized that I had unconsciously picked up on some kind of subtle rhythm, as I soon found myself tapping my leg with my hand in kind of a 'bap-dappa-bap-bap-bappa-dap-dap' beat. Looking around, I saw that these sounds weren't coming from some car outside, or the apartment upstairs. I figured out that the source of the noise could only be the nasty, hot collection of metal tucked back against the wall. I actually felt kind of impressed with my radiator. Up until now, it's wheezes and taps were always random.

So, in summary, not only does the thing want to kill me with heat, but it is musically inclined. Life keeps getting better.

I've been thinking about John Walker, the 'American Taliban,' ever since Tina Fey said during one Weekend Update that his experience in Afghanistan was "the worst student exchange program ever." In an interview, Walker said something to the effect that the 'Taliban became close to his heart.' I wonder how they charmed him, exactly. Good seats at stadium executions? Giving him a turn when they beat up a woman for smiling? Ten percent off at the Taliban gift shop?

It's fairly clear by now that you don't join the Taliban to get laid.

Speaking of which, and go ahead and judge me if you will for this rare moment of FadeIn honesty, but, after I realized that Sally and I had truly stopped dating, I thought what I wanted was to indulge myself in lots of meaningless, random sex. I mean, I'm young, I'm single again after nearly three years, I was thinking I should have fun. I know it all could seem kind of trashy, but, if you tried to tell me you've never had similar thoughts, I simply wouldn't believe you. Anyway, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it isn't the kind of fun I want at all. Once again, as with many things, the fantasy is far more attractive than the reality. I think that last sentence is all the explanation that thought requires.

Besides, if I had a new girl over, I'd have to seriously clean my bathroom.

(Hey, this is me talking, here. How long did you think I was going to be serious, revealing, and introspective before I made a joke?)

So, I'm taking a cue from Aldous Huxley, who said that "An intellectual is someone who has finally found something more interesting than sex." I've been renting and watching films, trying to expand the scope of the things that I read, paying more attention to music. I'm shoveling truckloads and genius, brilliance, and inspiration into my brain in the hopes that some of it overflows and comes pouring back out through my fingers and onto a page. I have some other post-graduation goals to accomplish between now and my move in June, and I'll tell you about them once I get them set up, rock solid.

Oh, and since I'm talking about brains, fingers, and pages, here's something cool I don't remember if I mentioned before: A few weeks ago, my 'soap opera' writing class had a substitute. It turned out that woman had once been a professional tv writer. She had written for 'Roc,' a Fox show about a black family, which was actually a pretty smart show that I liked. After the class, we walked up Wabash to the train together. I was impressed by her insights during the class, and she seemed impressed by me, too. We talked about our experiences in the business so far. She told me about Roc, about getting her pilot sold, about getting script notes over the phone from Richard Sakai (The Simpsons). I told her about What About Joan and the way I shmoozed and networked my way into it ("You're going to hire me, one day," she said, laughing). I told her about my complimentary letter from Robin Schiff (Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion), which I recieved from her after she noticed an essay I wrote and posted on the WB message boards in defense of the doomed 'Grosse Pointe' (another GP writer/producer emailed me to say that Darren Star had read it).

Anyway, we got along really well, and had similar professional tastes. It's a shame there wasn't much of a physical spark. She gave me her email address, and told me to send her a copy of my own pilot. Cool. I was going to get notes from a pro.

So, the next day, I sent my script, a few weeks went by, and I forgot about. Then, yesterday, I got an email with the subject line 'your script.' I didn't even realize what it was when I opened it. She wrote to tell me that she thought the pilot was "really funny," and then gave me her address so I could send the actual script. She wants to write on it and send me back some pen and paper notes. Cool, eh?

So, that brings you up to speed on the Life of Me. My two weeks of break are just about over, and Wednesday I have to go back to school for three more weeks before I'm finally, completely done. I have less than 72 hours to write two papers, do an art project, some math homework, and read 200 pages of philosophy.

Fuck.