2002-01-31 - 6:52 p.m.

Yesterday I went to the dry cleaner to pick up my stuff. Evan wasn't there, only Chris, who seems to be splitting the days with Evan lately. I just went to pick up my cleaning, and we started small-talking a little. Before I knew it, he was spilling his entire life story to me, including his wife's unhappiness with his career path, his childhood troubles with his parents, and his disillusionment with grad school. How does this happen?

I started thinking about it, and trying to figure out what I should do with it. I think that's where the therapist thing comes in. Although I am good at what I do, I have no passion for it. I spoke to someone who is a career counselor (not officially, I just met her at a bar) and she said that everyone has a natural inclination of some sort, a path that works with their own personal strengths. Of course, she then tried to convince me to come to see her at her office, where she could guide me on this topic for the low, low price of $200. Yeah, right.

And then I started thinking about it, and thinking about all the strangers who've told me their stories. A client who broke down and told me that his wife was rushed to the hospital with abdominal pain, and confessed to him IN THE AMBULANCE that she had been having an affair with their Jamaican houseman. Turned out to be an etopic pregnancy. Or the man at the bar in Vegas at a convention, who told my friend Bobby and I (he was shitfaced) that he's suffering from a sperm blockage, and sometimes it feels like he's going to explode. And that he raises pigs.

Or the woman at the airport who asked me if I ever considered suicide, and that she was consumed with the thought.

I could go on and on. Ok. So people tell me their stories. What am I supposed to be doing with that?

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