I went to the second most horrible children’s birthday party ever, but it’s not nice to talk about it. It made me sad. I think I hit the car on something on the way out. I pulled over—it was raining—and put on the hazard lights and went out to check the car and then was like, I must leave here now. Got back in the car and drove John home.

I’m too susceptible, I realize, to other people’s situations. I get uncomfortable in, for example, expensive houses that are poorly decorated. I feel like there are no values in the world. This house had an enormous basement covered in yucky carpeting and I thought, These children are going to smoke pot here later. I will not let my children come over. All of which is ridiculous. I will say that no one, including the little birthday girl, face buried in her father's neck, liked the clown they got. John was initially critical because she didn’t have a red nose. She was otherwise dressed from head to toe in extremely distinctive clown gear (right before I did or did not hit the car on something I watched her drive away in her car still wearing the wig, the hat, the makeup and the shirt), but he felt the lack of nose was significant. Darlings, why can’t everything be nice in the world? Alternately, Why must everything have meaning?