Overheard in a local restaurant: Yeah, I heard Princess Diana died, but what I don't understand is why Pavarotti was chasing her.

It is said that the average I.Q. in the U.S. is 100. When I was younger, I just couldn't believe that. No way! A Hundred? That can't be possible. That'd mean we're a nation of morons! These days, I think it's a gross overestimate.

Elly has again torn down her site. When last she did, I was somewhat new to the whole "journal scene," and I wrote to her with encouraging words. After, though, I learned that she'd done it several times before. You know, there's a saying, and I can't quite remember the exact words, but it's something Nana used to say. It goes something like: Catch me once, shame on you; catch me twice, shame on me.

It is clear that Elly desires attention. This is reflected not only in the mammoth proportions of her site, but also in the reactive manner in which she deals with audience feedback, as well as the periodic shredding the site itself. Sadly, Elly is feeding from purely negative attention. I can only imagine that she feels attention, no matter how negative, is better than none at all.

And how masochistic that is, too. To work for so many hundreds of hours on something, something about which she herself has expressed pride, only to destroy it. For attention. It were as though the notice her site gained simply wasn't enough in itself. Oh, but to rip it out, stitch by careful stitch... Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

I'm sorry, Elly, attention-getting behaviours are the games toddlers play. You are no longer three-years-old, and I will not treat you as such. Shame on me.

What an arduous week this last has been! Sick though I was, I managed to fly about here, accomplishing nearly everything I'd intended to. Amazing.

Over the holiday weekend, I threw together some mock-ups and storyboards for a design contract I'm bidding. Met with them on Tuesday; conference went so smoothly, I thought it was the cough syrup playing tricks. I'm to hear more from them early next week. Cross your toes for me, eh? This job could mean a college fund for Wee Babe.

Returned home Tuesday afternoon, flicked on the modem, and saw...

Cara. On ICQ. Home a week early. And I gave birth to a live, purple polka-dotted cow right then and there. She messaged that she'd received a huge number of emails complaining about the service and quality of the chat area she, Tony, and I host. Puzzled, she'd come here to see if I'd written anything that might enlighten her as to what had transpired. We spoke on the phone nigh to an hour, and I filled in the details I left out of these pages. She decided to host the chat alone for now, though she plans on bringing me back on shortly.

How to approach Tony, though, was a matter with which she struggled. She didn't want to start a huge nasty battle, but knew Tony is unfit to continue as host. However, she hadn't yet had enough time to prepare for the conversation with Tony that she knew was both necessary and inevitable. I suggested that she might go the vague route with Tony until she is able to collect her thoughts.

Now, if we could just get Tony and her toadies to quit paging/emailing Cara and me... First came the farewell note from Tony (copied to everyone and his cousin Hank), full of breast-beating barely concealed beneath a disgusting layer of sickly-sweet chicanery. Well, of course, that got the sycophants' panties in a bunch, and they began pelting us with letters written in ever-so concerned tones, singing Tony's praises, imparting how heartbroken she is at no longer being host, and requesting more information regarding what happened.

Tony insists she has had nothing to do with her "friends'" actions. Interesting, though, that pulling off a stunt like this would require the very same duplicit, manipulative tactics what got Tony fired in the first place.