2002-03-21 - 1:57 p.m.

OK, so maybe I�m not really a moron but the way I act sometimes really harshes my mellow. In 24 hours I�ll be going to San Francisco (if I had any hair to speak of, I�d be sure to be wearing flowers in it) and I should be full of excited beans but instead I�ve spent the last day or so just worrying about money, and getting screwed over by the industry that, hello, I�m meant to be (a small, granted) part of � I�m sure people have their reasons for not wanting to be promoted, god forbid that hotels should actually want people to come and stay in their precious fucking rooms. In short, I lost sight that I�ll be away from London (or �Streetcrimedon�, as I like to think it should be renamed) for two weeks and meeting up with some amazing people in places I�ve never been before.

Admittedly, some of those places will be stinking hostels where you get to have your bags rifled through and listen to people having �discreet� sexual relations whilst pretending to leaf through their Lonely Planets on the top bunk, but it�s all grist to the mill. Whatever THAT means. I only have to sell, like, three stories a day to keep my head above water (or alternatively, one scoop on, say, a member of the cast of Friends being involved in child slavery or nude dwarf tossing) � it will be a test of my journalistic acumen.

Oh, fuck.

So I should just accept that everything will be fine (I mean, knocking out tabloid-y destination guides � it�s not exactly rocket surgery) and make west coast hay whilst the sun shines.

Everything�s fine.

It�s just been quite a week, one way or another.