I woke up annoyed, and went into the living room to blog, because I finally have internet access. I heard my cell phone ringing somewhere, found my handbag under a pile of newspapers and rooted around in the bottom until I found it. It was my best friend, calling for our usual morning check-in.

“Why are you calling me on my cell phone?” I said, cranky. My vocal chords weren’t quite working yet; these, my first words of the day, sounded like a frog trying to croak out a few words and failing.

“I called your other phone and there was no answer. I figured you were out and about,” she said.

“No, it was out here and I didn’t hear it,” I said.

I proceeded to tell her about the dream that annoyed me so much, it woke me up. “You know those binder things you use in an office to make manuals?” I said. “J. (my ex) wrote a book - his take on the universe - printed it up and had it bound, and gave away copies to everybody. I mean everybody; everywhere I went, people were reading this goddamned book.”

“I could see why that would piss you off. After all, he published a book and you didn’t,” she said. (I hate her. Have I mentioned that?)

“He didn’t ‘publish’ it,” I said, haughty. “He had it printed at a Kinko’s or something like that. And people weren’t buying it - he was giving it away, for free.”

“But everybody was reading it and talking about it. Sounds like they enjoyed it,” she said. (See why I hate her?)

“It wasn’t even edited or coherent,” I said. “It was just him, blathering on about his opinions about everything.”

“But he did finish something,” she said. “And it connected with people. No wonder you’re pissed off. He finished something, and you didn’t.” (I’m probably never speaking to her again.)

“Oh, like that makes him a writer?” I said.

She said something about how I’d probably be pissed if he put out a CD before me, too.

“No, that wouldn’t bother me at all,” I said. “Because that was his dream, the thing he wanted to do. Writing a book is my dream. That’s what pissed me off.”

“It’s just a dream. You’re reacting as if this actually happened,” she said.

“It’s always the dreams that I think are totally absurd that seem to actually happen,” I said. (She couldn’t argue with me there; I have a track record.)

“And you know how I have the videos embedded in my site? He had them on the pages of his book. On this one page, there was a video of him dancing.”

“That must have been ugly,” she said.

“It was,” I said. (Almost as lame as his attempts at a Liverpool accent.)

“And you were pissed off because there was nothing about you in there?”

“No, I knew I was in there,” I said. “That’s part of why I’m so mad: Because he was writing about everything, openly. Literally, his life was an open book. Which, of course, he never really was with me, and now that we’re not together, he’s finally doing it. It feels like he’s trying to suck me back into the vortex with this… this… simulated transformation.”

That’s not it, though. Here’s the real problem: It’s not just worrying about money that has me so worked up lately. For months, I’ve been tangled up in anger, and self-pity, and mistrust. I’ve lost the agreeable knack of giving others the benefit of the doubt. (Which, come to think of it, is exactly how he is. How ironic; apparently we’ve switched lives.)

Seven years ago, I had this one tantalizing taste of transcendance, and it changed my life, utterly. For a long time, I lived in a heady place of acceptance and compassion - but I seem to have worn it out, and it doesn’t come with a replacement warranty.

My ex had a lot to do with that. The things he did were so cruel, so unthinkable to me, I seem to have shut down everything that was truly kind in my nature as a result. Suspicion is now my default position. I’ve turned into him - and I hate it. God, no wonder he’s such an asshole. This is no way to live.

Now, it’s not that I’m going around doing mean things on purpose, although I’m much less patient than I used to be. It’s that my sense of compassion has decompensated into an intellectual stance, with no real insight and emotion behind it. It’s like when you saw a movie at a pivotal time in your life, and it resonated with you - and years later, you watch it and think, “Why did I like this so much?” The emotions just aren’t there.

I’ve even forgiven him, as much as I’m capable of under these conditions. But it doesn’t bring the same feeling of release it did before.

And how is your Saturday morning?