I will say this much, though. I feel very strongly about getting the word out on my recent Harry Potter addiction. I've gotten hooked after listening the audio books in the car with my husband and daughter on road trips and it's been very hard getting other things done when I want to be reading the book. There, I re-did that much.

I don't believe this, the entire post I just wrote is gone. I lost it somehow before managing to put in on my site. Crap! It was really brialliant, too. He, he, he. No, but really, it was brilliant I tell you. Should I bother trying to write it out again or not? Probably not, the muse only hits every now and again.

I am really tired right now. I've gotten the worst sleep in the last few days. I don't know why, but it sucks. My back hurts, too. I've been thinking a lot lately of the vulgar, in terms of what makes something vulgar. It's a concept I think I'd like to explore further. Is it just dirty talk? No, I don't think so. I only wonder about it because people often think they can find beauty in the disgusting. I don't know if it's because to imagine something repugnant, you have to imagine the opposite, otherwise it couldn't exist. It all seems to tie into a kind of rapture to me. You get lost in the incredibly vulgar and the incredibly pure in the same way, I think. There's a similar attraction to the essence of something that forces you to look at it and examine it and let it run between your fingers.

What drains the passion from a person? There used to be a time when there wasn't enough time for me to say all the things I wanted to. Now, I can hardly think of anything worth saying. I've been thinking about the hair story I started some time ago and have been feeling a little interested in working on it and seeing where it goes. The main problem is I'm not entirely sure what I want it to talk about. At the time I started it, I was playing with the idea of how asian beauty is processed in the American psyche, which I still think is a good motivator. But what do I want to say about it. I think there are still a lot of stereotypes about people of asian decent in America--primarily that they are somehow still foreign and not actually from America. People always ask where are you from. What's your nationality? As if America and American cannot be the answer. So we're back to the way asian beauty is processed and how asian woman view themselves in relation to the American ideals of beauty. I like to see how the "hipper" asian women do things like have their eyes widened and dye their hair blonde. I should say Korean women, because I don't know if Japanese-, Chinese-, etc.-American women do these things. But Korean-American women love looking good. They love their DKNY, they love their cellphones, they love their platform shoes, they love their razor-sharp hairstyles, they love their cosmetic tattoos.

I've been thinking lately I should concentrate more on my writingómy real writingónot this thing. I'm feeling the old desire creep up on me again. The question is what's the story? In a lot of ways, you're always writing. The stories are turning round in your head and they never stop. It's just easier to let them run their course in the brain rather than put them down on paper. But the stories are there. I used to feel really passionately about a lot of things and none of those things seem so important anymore.

Last week I was watching some teenagers at the mall and they were dressed up in prom outfits and they were all very conspicuous because how can you not be in prom clothes at the mall. Obviously the dance was being held somewhere in the mall because there were a lot of kids. When my friends and I saw the first couple of them, we thought the boys had decided to take their dates to dinner there and we wondered would you want to be taken to the mall for your prom dinner. We all decided no, but then we started seeing more of them walking around while they held hands trying to look as glamorous as the clothes they were wearing.

The girls all wore strapless gowns or, at most, spaghetti straps. I guess I'm entering the phase of my life where I begin thinking like my parents because I wondered how their mothers let them leave the house in outfits that bared so much. Not that they really did bare so much, but I don't think I would have felt comfortable wearing a strapless gown at 16. I don't think I'd feel comfortable wearing a strapless gown now at 34. Mainly because you're pulling up on the thing all night long and it's just not worth the aggravation.

But it was nice to watch the girls and see in their faces the look that on this one night they got to be beautiful. They got to be fancy and dressed up and beautiful. The boys all looked puffed up and ridiculous as they most often do, but the girls were all beautiful and happy.

I am sitting here and I am bored. I still feel a little self-consious about putting anything real here because I really don't like the idea of just anyone seeing what I write.

I'm looking out my office window and it's gray outside. It's been storming and there are drops of rain trapped in the window screen. I can also see pools of water on the tops of buildings below me. I don't like rain. It's puts me in a bad mood. Sunshine is better. It clears the mind and makes you remember it can be good to smell fresh air and look at the sky. In the haze of the horizon I see the blinking light on a cellular phone tower. Leaves are only now beginning to fill out the trees; it's been a long winter.

OK, so it's taken a little explanation from my brother, but now I know that this is like a diary. A diary that anyone can see. First I should warn you, I like to make up stories, so you'll never quite know if I'm telling you the truth or not. But now that I'm up to speed (it can sometimes take awhile), I'll know to divulge all my really juicy secrets for your entertainment.

OK, now this is really new. And I still don't feel like saying anything. Have to share some thoughts later, I suppose.