I drank 3 Cans of Diet Coke Today

and didn't think anything of it. I practically crawled to the service elevator to the basement and clawed the pop machine and fed it quarters until it spit out three cans of ice cold goodness. Trudged back upstairs to my apartment, lights off shades drawn, and wasted away the entire day. My neighbor down the hall was blasting the Limp Bizkit "3 Dollar Bills Y'all" CD and I tried my best to drown it out with a Bravo TV marathon of 'The Real Housewives of Orange County". Quality Tuesday afternoon.

I have to say that a can of Diet Coke is like the perfect antidote for me when I'm in a shaky state. It cures my hangover, restores the life in me, and wakes me up. I wasn't hung over today which was a miracle considering that I was wasted by 6 and schmoozed around with Insurance execs at The Drake Hotel and the Signature Room until the wee hours of the morning. I was just tired.

Passed out for awhile on my couch, felt like a total worthless bum. Stared out my family room window and wished I had the stamina to join the outside world and do something productive and fun like I originally planned. A whole half day to do anything my heart desired and I spent it half asleep or mindlessly watching TV.

Currently I'm feeling really good. I went out to Blue Agave with Allison tonight for some tasty local Mexican food and margaritas. We then hopped over to McFadden's and got a glass of wine as we had a marathon conversation. There's something so innately comforting about a lit cigarette touching your lips as you inhale; about closing your eyes and wanting to be nowhere else in the world but there, with someone special, a drink in your hand and baggage left at the door.

One of the wall mirrors in my elevator had the imprint of someones forehead on it. Someone must have leaned against it face first in a temporary feeling of utter defeat. I wonder what caused that.

I noticed that the girl who lives directly to the right of me had a bunch of things laying outside her closed door. Not one but two dozen long stem roses (a dozen pink, a dozen white) were neatly bunched with clear cellophane and elegant ribbon. A bottle of French red wine and exquisite looking cheese were keeping the roses company. No card. She must know who would leave something like that at the foot of her door.

As I slowly turned my key in the lock I realized just how jealous I was of my neighbor's flowers and tasty surprises. I don't enjoy feeling jealous of things and don't allow it to happen often, but I was openly and admittedly jealous. If someone left some roses at the foot of my door - well, I don't even know what I would do. It's one of the easiest and best ways to make me absolutely melt. Stereotypical, sure. Send a girl some flowers, make her day, her month, her year. It's all about the traditional yet thoughtful things that make my world go round.

I just heard my neighbor walk up to her door, pause, crinkling of plastic flower wrap as she scooped up her treasures. I sat here like a stalker on my side of the wall, listening and imagining the look of sheer happiness and surprise on her face as she laid eyes on her surprises; inhaled the scent of roses.

You never know what each day will bring.