Dear Mykel,

I seriously think I need the drugs, man.

Right now, I am floating like an American Beauty plastic bag. Like durga, I am afraid how long this feeling will last. Someone once asked me if I secretly believed that I will not be happy in the end. I seriously nourish the belief (or is it fantasy?) that I will find happiness. I am in agreement with this intrepid interviewer that my concept of happiness is far beyond the trivial, insipid versions of happiness my friends conceive for me. They live in private universes where happiness is attainable with perfectly-coordinated bedsheets, well-conceived career plans, overflowing closets and age-specific marriage plans.

I too find myself sedated by these candy-cane promises every now and then. Then I see the poison that is secretly laced in them.

I content myself with less-committing placebos. Let me run my list: the Spring/Summer collections of de la Renta and von Furstenberg; Granny Goose Tortillos (Cheese) with sour cream; Red Ribbon Chocolate Truffles; Bath and Body Works Coconut Lime Verbena lotion; H&M ultra-soft Indian blouse; my mother's Victorian brooch. I soak these all in with the sober awareness of their short, short shelf-lives. While I do have the illusion of attaining happiness even on my dying day, I do not harbor the illusion of falling back on lifetime warranties.

And this is why I have found (rather belatedly) a kindred spirit in Anouilh's Antigone. While my 4-5:30 class villified her for being such a baby and not owning up to responsibilities, hiding behind the 'privilege' of being young and idealistic, I celebrate her obstinate, cynical and romantic view of life in death and death in living.

My mother once said that I would be better off if I lessened my thick bedside readings and not labor over theories and concepts. I calmly replied that the moment I stopped doing so I might as well asphyxiate myself.

Like Antigone, I say no to humdrum notions of life and happiness. For one to say yes to these things is to say yes to the cancer of a half-thought, sort-of existence.

A.

P.S. I shall await your visit to your once-private Hell.