Dear Diary,

There is so much about this world I fear I will never be able to fully understand.  And I believe that my rampant inability to sleep soundly through the darkness of night is potentially rooted in the unstoppable whirl of everything that I just don’t know for sure that goes spinning through my head on repeat like a bad song by ABBA.

It is good to question things, Diary – at least that’s what I’ve always been told.  Because if I question, I will continue to learn. I will continue to grow and I will be far more knowledgeable than the person who simply accepts things at face value – or at least I will be tied with anybody who has the Wikipedia app on his or her phone.

But still – there are thoughts and ponderings for which sometimes there seems to be no clear answer, and Diary?  Those never-ending questions are scarier to me than that fluffy flying dog in The Neverending Story, a movie that almost made me go permanently catatonic.  See, it doesn’t matter that I like doggies both big and small; this dog flew, and that’s just unacceptable.

That said, at least I know that it was the dog’s giant flapping ears that made him sail horrifyingly through the expansive sky, so terrifying though it was, it’s not a question that continues to plague me.  But Diary, there are some things that do ravage both my heart and my mind, and they include vital questions like these:

How does Kim Kardashian wipe?  Really:  how does she get in there?  Is there a lot of shifting involved?  Does she have an Ass Valet?  Does he have a health plan?  And when will his reality show premiere, because I’m going to need to throw a viewing party where the favor will be laxatives.

Why do stunningly gorgeous men like Johnny Depp and Jared Leto insist on going out of their way to look as close to hideous as they possible can, short of wearing monster man prosthetics?  These guys have proven they are talented and that they didn’t skate by through aesthetics alone, so why – when all I want is to see the man who used to make me grip the side of the couch with an excited and clammy hand when he was Jordan Catalano – must I see a scraggily beard that might have only looked good on Jesus, and even then, only on days when there was no humidity in Egypt?

If polygamy does eventually become legal and if I ever finally master the art of sharing, is there any way I could marry Jon Stewart?  Because I really think we’d get along swimmingly even though he’s short.  I probably don’t have to wear heels every day; maybe I can get over liking the feeling of being dainty that I get when I’m next to a tall man.  And he’s actually Jewish, so maybe I could ruin the bets I’m sure have been placed on the unlikely likelihood of my ever marrying someone of my own religion – and with my vast winnings from overturning what once was the most surest sure thing ever, I would convince him to convert.  We can become Scientologists!  With him at my side, I could definitely gain access to that grand Celebrity Centre in Los Angeles and then I could solve the next issue that often leaves me with insomnia:

What the fuck is wrong with Scientologists?  I mean, have you ever read any of the books about the religion?  (If not, start with Inside Scientology, written by Janet Reitman.  Then move on to the website written by Tony Ortega, former writer of The Village Voice, a man who breaks story after story about the human crimes committed by money-hungry lunatics who believe that a pulpy science fiction writer solved the greatest issues of the universe.)  Now, I’m an open-minded sort of girl, so I would never fully judge anything that I didn’t understand – except for girls who use the word “totes” instead of “totally” and say things like “My friends are obsessed with me,” because those girls should be killed.  But as far as Scientology goes, I’ve read quite a bit and there’s not a whole lot of ways to deny or ignore the questionable tactics and beliefs of an organization granted a tax-exempt status because it pretends it’s a religion.  Except it’s a religion like a rice cake is a cookie.

Moving away from cult-y “religions,” why do some people breathe so loudly?  Is it because of a deviated septum like so many of them claim?  Sinus issues?  And do they hear themselves breathe?  Do they disturb themselves the way they do me?

And speaking of awareness, there have to be some moments where a fully grown woman, who once probably earned some form of higher education, says goodnight to the crew of the reality show that she continues to sign on for season after season and she goes upstairs to wash her makeup off in a bathroom that has two sinks – but since her recent divorce, she only uses her sink.  And after applying some tightening skin serum along her face and her neck, she must crawl into bed and think, God, I’m just a shell of a real person these days.  I have sold my dignity and my soul for an appearance on Watch What Happens Live.  I wonder where my life would be if I didn’t sanction my role in brawling with other adults for sport.  I wonder who I am anymore without a camera trailing behind me for kind of no good reason whatsoever.  If I fell in a forest or in a dressing room at Barney’s, would anyone hear me fall if I didn’t have a microphone strapped to my jeans?  They have to think those thoughts some nights, don’t they?  Diary?

Should I get my own cotton candy machine for my kitchen – one that only makes the fluffiest of pink cotton candy – or should I get a juicer?

If my life is ever made into a movie, can I write the voiceover and would it be possible to get Keith Morrison, that guy from Dateline NBC, to perform it?  Because he can make anything sound interesting and kind of sinister and I think the whole Morgan-Freeman-doing-narration thing might be getting played out.

Those sweaters emblazoned with tinsel and yarn and bedazzled crosses – the kind I had to buy once for an Ugly Christmas Sweater Party, a theme that will never make good sense to me the way a Highlighter Mixer did in college – are they really made with the intention that people will buy them and then wear them in real life?  Do all of those people live in Nebraska?  Or do I actually know people who wear them, but they keep the habit hidden, like I hide that I like to wear garters sometimes?

If I hadn’t thrown up the time I tried that foamy astronaut strawberry ice cream at the planetarium when I was in fourth grade and had I ever gotten higher than a C in a Science class in my entire life, could I have worked for NASA?

Why would anybody buy Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in a flavor other than New York Super Fudge Chunk, Caramel Sutra, or Phish Food?  Is there perhaps more mental illness than I thought there was in this world?  And why have we as a society not elected either Ben or Jerry President of Everything but we keep electing members of the Bush clan?

Does Springsteen sing his own music in the shower?

Why, after six seasons of turning Sarah Jessica Parker into a perfectly dressed and styled city muse on Sex and the City, did the stylists on the overlong first movie sweep her hair away from her angular face and then shove a bird carcass into it for Carrie’s non-wedding day?  Was the bird and its feathers meant to be fashionable?  A slight and subtextual commentary on the dangers of the avian flu?  Or did she lose a bet somewhere along the bumpy way and this was her far too grave punishment?

Does Derek Jeter really give thanks-for-banging-me gift baskets to girls as they leave his townhouse?  And if he gave me one, would it be possible to thank him sweetly for the Yankee memorabilia but tell him I already have a slew of the stuff, so can I please have me some of that fresh jam that is sitting on his kitchen table?

You know that memory-wiping thing that was done in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?  Could that kind of thing ever really occur?  I mean, technology is growing in leaps and bounds, so much so that you can now have your own Spotify music playing in your Uber vehicle the moment it picks you up.  That shit means there’s advancement happening each and every day, so will that memory-swiping experiment ever really be a thing?  And would I actually go ahead and have it done if it were real?  Because I have full days where I think that I definitely would at least go for a consultation – and then there are those other days where I always and forever want to own every single one of my memories, good or bad.

Why have I gone through long periods of time where I could only fall asleep when the television was on, only to be followed by a few years where I needed complete and total silence to fall and stay asleep?  And why am I back to the ever-present sounds of the television again in the middle of the night?

Are the producers of reality shows like Dance Moms and Gypsy Sisters going to hell for the damage they have inflicted upon the world?  And does hell really exist?  Is it genuinely hot and fiery and overrun with pitchfork-wielding demons, or is that just a legend that was created with the intention of keeping hell exclusive, like a place with a velvet rope, a guest list, and a signature martini?

And finally, Diary, what is it about my emotional and mental makeup that has allowed me to just shrug and shake my head when I should have exploded; to smile and go forth into a world that has often been cruel; and to believe that the glorious and swelling tides are turning to those I can surf across while wearing the prettiest bikini ever?

Thanks for listening, Diary.  I feel better now.

Hugs and kisses-

PS:  Should you ever turn into an object with the ability to move like a transformer, please go forth into the world and procure me some Ambien.