I am on an eternal journey of self-discovery. Every day some new aspect of myself unfolds, sometimes gloriously, like a lotus blossom (sudden and unaccountable comfort with own body), and sometimes repulsive, like turning over a perfect-looking dead sparrow to find the other side riddled with maggots (capacity for tremendous cowardice, for example). Bits of me are in constant evolution, like my sudden sex dreams which began last year with no warning and have continued with increasing frequency (yay!). And all this is a long intro to the main idea of my paragraph here, which is: My first curry lamb pie was something of a failure.

I blame the curry, which was extremely weak and did not thicken quite the way I thought it would. I think the directions were wrong and anytime I buy a packet of seasoning in the Ethnic section of QFC and the seasoning packet itself is in two languages, neither of which are English, and the English directions are very small, difficult to locate, and consist of only four sentences�then I begin to suspect that translating the directions into English was not the first and main consideration of the manufacturers. I get the feeling English directions appear there as an afterthought and so may not be totally accurate. 2 � cups of water, my ass! If you want curry soup.

I ended up draining most of the liquid off and adding cornstarch, garlic salt, dill and cayenne pepper to make it palatable and all baked together in the pie, it wasn�t bad.

But this pie story is yet another intro to the heart of the matter, which is: I have developed an acute craving for pie crust that is starting to border on irrational lust and compulsive mania. So this is how other women feel about chocolate, I think to myself. I think pie crust must release in me these same endorphins and feelings of love and acceptance that most women get from chocolate or ice cream. It fills a deep void within. But better even than pie crust, is pie crust dough. O insidious vice! I have begun eating the pie crust dough mix straight from the box�with a spoon!

Shame! Guilt! Bliss! O multitude of conflicting emotions! O pie crust dough mix, you are my Siren, calling me to dash myself into large pieces of quivering blubber on your flaky golden shores.

This is a serious self-control issue�one that may have to be handled the same way I handled the Pillsbury Toaster Strudel incident�by simply avoiding that isle in the supermarket altogether and never bringing the stuff into my house.

Relapse is part of the process.

On a different note, I had a very good sex dream last night, about boinking someone (maybe Bob Hoskins?) on the Roger Rabbit ride at Disneyland. Fair play to Bob Hoskins.

And at the end of the dream, I was showing Paul where I�d carved his name into both my ankles. He wasn�t impressed, but I thought it looked quite stylish.