I'm watching Annie on the Disney Channel right now, and oh my, what a ratty kid she was. Good thing I was obsessed enough as a girl to know offhand that Aileen Quinn wore a wig in that movie; if I didn't, I'd be feeling so very sorry for her right now.

As it is, though, Annie is touring the Warbucks mansion and Ms. Farrell is inexplicably shocked to hear that the orphan in clashing rags has never picked up a tennis racket in her life. As if the intramural sports leagues at the orphanage are so strong that the breadth of her athletic education was just assumed. The woman should just thank her lucky stars she got an orphan who could sing on key.

But what does it say about me that I used to want to be Annie, and now I'm all about Miss Hannigan? Have I turned into a crabby drunk, or am I just not naive enough to want to be the little redheaded moppet who actually turns down Oliver Warbucks? Should I be making bathtub gin, or wearing red dresses singing songs about optimism and my bottom dollar?

I think I choose gin. Is that wrong?

I heard from Hunky Cameraman today -- or, my voice mail heard from him. Sounds like he's still recovering. Jessica and Lauren, almost simultaneously after reading my last entry, both suggested politely that I sack up and invite him to Los Angeles myself if I want to see him. And they're right. It's stupid to think it's a big deal to extend the offer -- for some reason, I was gun shy, thinking maybe he's sick of me, and so it made me tentative about broaching the subject.

With good reason, right now. I'm stepping away from him completely for now, at his request, until he decides he's ready to socialize a little more -- I think he's trying to regain his footing, his sleep schedule, and his mindset, and in doing so he's turned inward a bit, which everyone needs to do now and then. That's why I thought of a visit in the first place -- selfishly, yes, it'd just be fun to see him and hang out, but I feel like it might cheer him up a little bit, if only because I'm silly and very good at frivolous conversation, should he want his mind taken off more serious matters.

We'll see. Given what seems to be his frame of mind, I definitely don't expect him to hop a plane any time soon and certainly don't think it's appropriate to suggest it, so it's probably all a moot point. But eventually it can't hurt to let him know that he's welcome, now or in the future; that if he needs mindless R&R, Los Angeles and my company aren't such bad options. That's really what it's about: telling someone I care about that I'm here for him for deeper conversation, or I'm here for him if he needs to turn off his brain for a bit. Whichever helps most.

Right now, what helps seems to be letting him find his way back in his own time, though, so I'll continue to be there for him in spirit only, until such time as he's ready for me to be there in voice and/or in body. Assuming he warms up again, and depending on his work situation and whether or not he seems up for another plane trip (which I'll offer to pay for, because it's kind of weird to be like, "Hey, why don't you shell out some cash! Yeah!"), I'll totally invite him. It's a lot of factors to consider, but then again, he's gone through a lot and all I can do is hope that he comes out of it still wanting to hear my voice.

I wonder, do I come across as hopelessly neurotic? Pointlessly paranoid?

For some reason, though, this whole situation makes me want to tread carefully. I can't pretend to know what's going on, and it's not my place to write details here anyway; it's his psyche, not mine. Still, no harm in speculating. I'm not totally sure if this is just the usual rebound from a difficult and emotionally draining experience, or if he really is taking stock of a lot of things in his life, and I haven't spoken to him to know details. But if it's the latter, it's impossible for me to ignore that he might be reconsidering my place in his world and whether I have one. Who knows. He might be thinking about stuff that's totally unrelated, and let's face it, he probably is, because it's not All About Me, nor should it be.

Apparently, I'm a pessimist. It all comes back to gin vs optimism, and yet again, I'm led back to gin.

I overthink what should just be instinct. That's just my nature. I have a fear of making the wrong decision, saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, and offending the world with my selfish ineptitude. That often translates to me putting undue pressure on myself to be there for people in exactly the right ways, when really, there isn't always a clear-cut right or wrong way. Most of the time, people just want you to be you, not doing anything different, because that's why they love you and that's simply enough. But there's still this idea in my head that I have to do something special, something else, that's magically perfectly correct and the perfect balm to my friends' chafed spirits. And when I don't know what that one act is, I get panicky and start overanalyzing both my behaviour and theirs. And that's the surest way to be unhelpful. It's only because I care, though. The situation with H.C., such as it is, whatever it is, makes me want to be careful. I want to take care with him and of him, because he's special and I hate thinking of him being anything but happy and proud to be who he is, living the life that he lives. I'm not saying he doesn't feel those things; just that he seems a little logy and discombobulated right this second, and me being me, I worry this will descend into a malaise he can't shake.

See? I can't stop overthinking things. Good lord. I mean well, I really do, but if all this overwrought thought is as annoying for my friends as it is to me inside my own head, then wow, they must be begging for me to shut up.

So, I'm going to chill. If he wants to reach out, he will. He knows I'm there for him. In the meantime, I have to have faith that he's doing okay. I mean, Frankie says relax, and that guy definitely knew whereof he spoke.

I spent half of today at work, trying to get a jump start on the number of tapes I have to watch this week. Not much of an Easter celebration. I did talk to Julie, though, who is up in Maryland looking for apartments. Her job situation still isn't cemented -- well, it's as cemented as it can be right this second, but the government takes its sweet time to solidify other aspects of its employment process and she's waiting for all that red tape to disappear.

But she sounds so happy, and I'm excited for her. Cross your fingers that everything goes well for her with this apartment. She deserves more than a little bit of luck.

Someone got here by searching for: "I hate flip flops" -- so, that means my soulmate IS out there somewhere Reading: My Sports Illustrated What's up with the shed? Glad you asked. An evil talking candle led Liz to the shed, which she opened. We didn't see what was inside but later the candle hissed, "Remember... the sheeeeeeed," and she gasped, "I could NEVER forget The Shed." There's not that many "e"s in "shed." There are the way the candle says it.