My mother warned me to be wary of fauns.

The mess that is my life is no more of a mess than ever before.

Up this week: apartment hunting, soul searching and no-more-smoking.

The thought that (she) may go further in life irks me, that she may be able to do what I failed. I may be better paid, but she has what I want. Always has and I suppose she always will. I may be tinged with jealousy - the ugly, two-headed beast that it is.

Someone else I may have to become. Or a bartender. Either or would do, I suppose.