You become aware that your life, at times, resembles melodrama when someone Googles onto your page with the search "afraid of not being with you."

Shortly thereafter, that pretension is destroyed when someone visits after searching for "naked pictures of me and my roommate."

I just spent a few minutes following the first twenty results of the latter. Journalistic curiousty, of course. I was surprisingly disappointed. I won't link, because the results are inapprorpriate for most workplaces. Not because of the lewdness, mind you, but instead because of the egregious misspelling of the words "masturbation," and, inexplicably, "tits."

There are many proud traditions here at FadeIn. There have been for generations, dating all the way back to our service in the Confederacy. Regular readers know that certain topics are revisited every few months.

I'm not talking about the one line movie reviews of films I haven't seen. This did come up recently, however, when my roommate admonished me for watching "Not Another Teen Movie," which he himself had never seen. He took me to task for watching it when there are so many quality flicks out there I haven't bothered to watch yet.

Taking a glance at his DVD collection, I asked him whether he thought I should start with "Charlie's Angel's" or "Summer Catch."

And I'm not talking about attacks on my person by inanimate objects. So far, nothing in my Los Angeles apartment seems to have any sort of problem with me, and I've successfully interfaced with all of my home furnishings without incident. I am beginning to believe that the tree just off my porch is starting to hate me, though.

I have my reasons.

What I am talking about is the Quarterly FadeIn Attempt at Physical Fitness.

For a good couple of months spanning 2001 and 2002, I was an avid runner. I'd jog everyday around my local park in Chicago, and I would often run for 45 minutes or so at a time. I didn't often talk about it, as I didn't want to ruin my image as a coffee-swilling, chain-smoking, self-indulgent hedonist. I know that most of you read only to watch in horror as I destroy my health with pies, cakes, and piles of tater tots.

The other day, I ran. Then I lifted some weights. I plan to do this again as soon as my body can handle stairs, walking, and blinking without pain.

I'm a tad sore.

Other measures are being put into place as well. I've drastically cut down on the coffee, and will cut back further next week during Phase 2. I've been attempting to smoke less. I've been trying to incorporate more vegetables into my diet, more of the steamed or grilled variety than the fried and breaded mushroom or zuchinni variety.

Why am I doing these terrible things to myself?

For most of my 20's, I've been telling myself that, for at least a little while before I'm 30 I should be in excellent physical condition. A few weeks ago, I turned 28. I may have a skewed idea of what it's like to get older, but I imagine that once one hits 30 and beyond, anything involving movement becomes exponentially more difficult.

Oh, that, and I'm unemployed. I have no excuse for not using this time to become red fucking hot.

Last night, the Improvolympic: Our show went OK. Our team won again, but it was definitely middle of the road, a mixed bag, good and bad. People say I'm a harsh critic, but I know what we're capable of, and I always measure how we do against the best we can do.

The reactions from my friends to my lack of a callback was perfect: There was shock, disappointment, disbelief and anger. One of my former teachers even came up to me and, of her own volition, said she would call the office tomorrow to ask around and see what happened. It was really validating to see that other people were just as confused as I was about the whole thing.

Lastly, in 'Thank God I Was Clothed' News: My cute, twentysomething apartment manager Lori just walked into my bedroom.

She startled me. I may have yelped. She said she rang the doorbell, knocked on the door, yelled 'Hello,' and let herself in, all of which I did not hear. She was here to fix my drippy faucet.

And fix it she did.

She wrapped her hands around my plumbing, played with it a bit until it flowed freely once again, and left just a few minutes later with very little small talk.

I need a cigarette.