Tonight for dinner: comfort food. B-levelcomfort food. Cereal, but not the chocolatereserved for emergencies. I only feel mildly
sorry for myself, not for any reason so muchas that I’m alive, and people who should bearen’t, and why do I have to get the best
of everything? I’d be fine with a solid floorto sleep on, a jacket to keep me warm. A fewmillion dollars for my kids — I want to give them
everything except problems. On Tisha b’Av Iforgot not to thank G-d for shoes and sight, not because I wasn’t grateful but because I was —
I didn’t know if I’d still have them by mincha,didn’t know if I’d still remember to say thanks.Better to get it out of the way. Better to live
in the moment. There must be a mediumof hope and despair, some soft-rock happinessthat will get me to my next joy. Maybe it’s thinking
more joy will come. Maybe it’s being okaythat this is what I have.