Dear Diary,

Today is the last day that I get to sit up all alone in the vast wasteland of empty cubicles on the 37th floor and do my work up there while the rest of my colleagues are forced to suffer working together on the 20th floor.

I won't have Debbie to play with anymore. She and I would sit around and talk about Sex and the City and bumpy underwear and why white people will never get to dance down the line on Soul Train. I won't have her doing her impression of white people dancing complete with finger snaps so off of the imaginary beat that it just makes you tear up from laughing so hard.

And Diary, that means I have to go back to my desk and do actual work. I mean it's not like I'm not working there but being up here on 37 gives me a sense of freedom that I don't have on 20. I mean if I wanted to run around naked on the 37th floor, I probably could. Not something could do on 20. They would want me to wear fishnets or something.

And then, Diary, I'm concerned about alien abductions. Is it just me or when I'm laying up in my loft bed and I wake up in the middle of the night and see myself seven feet off the floor I think that I'm being taken back into the mothership for another round of anal probing (and not the pleasurable kind either)? Are aliens taking me away to use me for some lab experiments? I swear I woke up one morning and it looked like one part of my leg had been shaved.

And, Diary, I'm concerned about people who are living without properly refrigerated vegetables. And people whose socks don't match. And about people who can't find the tilde on the keyboard. And people who can't tell the difference between Blanche and Sophia on the Golden Girls. And people who don't know what a kumquat is. And nuclear war.

Do I just worry about too much, Diary? Or is it not enough? Maybe I should just get my own late night talk show so I have the forum in which these things could be discussed. I mean, if I'm worried about them then I know someone else has to be as well....

Brian