A break in an otherwise tedious day: lunch in the Gardens, surrounded by manmade waterfalls and cement benches where birds chirp so incessantly I question whether or not it's a recording. An hour minus commute time to read or watch the serpentine lines of children walk through the maze of patches of lawn and other such businesshmucks as myself attempting to remind themselves why they bother. I sit next to a pond where people stop every few minutes to photograph or comment on the plant fixtures in the middle of the softly swirling oasis. Some girls jump up to touch the water and their mother warns them, "Don't splash the lady!" When did I become the lady, ma'am? I smile knowingly at the real lady in the situation: "Oh, you know kids." The child is wearing a hideous faux-cowhide skirt: see, I'm still a miss. (I'm still amiss.) Three or fourteen cigarettes later and I emerge from the cocoon of my flight jacket (it's January even if it's sunny outside), nod goodbye to My Friend The Wading Pool and shuffle back to work. A hundred days could pass before I lift my head and decide once again, "I don't have to do this to myself," but I'll continue along my way despite the realization that I Hate My Life. Self-pity will get you nowhere in the same way that flattery will get you everywhere: it doesn't really mean anything unless you plan to do something about it.