I have very little time to write tonight. I spent most of the night writing sample test questions for a job interview on Monday. The job pays about 50k a year. Were I to get the job, I would certainly be on stronger financial footing now that I have only my own income to depend on.

I'm at home, staying with my parents for a few days. "Home" is now an amorphous concept. The first day of the separation, I caught myself thinking and writing about Ex as my "boyfriend." (The reason I decided to call him "Ex" was simply to remind myself to refer to him this way, as my ex-boyfriend.) Now I catch myself referring to our apartment as "home," even though one of us will soon be moving out (most likely, me).

My mom took me shopping per my father's advise. (He told me later that I should always have new clothes, as I could never be sure when I might meet someone new; I'd want to make a good impression, he said.) My father gave my mother a shopping list: dress-shirts, slacks, handkerchiefs, shoes. On one level, I felt embarrassed, like a child, going clothes-shopping with my mother. But I can't say it didn't feel good. I came home with three Macy's bags full of everything on my father's list (except for handkerchiefs; my mom and I agreed that handkerchiefs are disgusting, despite my father's belief that every grown man should use them).

After the department store, mom and I stopped at Barnes and Noble where I picked up a copy of a book called The Velvet Rage. I called several friends the day of the breakup; one of them recommended that I read this book and said I might see myself in it. I'd planned on cracking the binding tonight, but it's already 2:15 in the morning. Hopefully I'll have time once my interview materials are in order.

I haven't spoken to Ex since yesterday, but I've heard from him indirectly through Facebook. He's been posting status updates about the glorious moon and stars above his parents' house in upstate New York where he's staying for Christmas. His posts remind me of the final paragraph of my previous entry about the lunar eclipse. But, unlike me, he is not writing anonymously, and this bothers me. His status updates are celebratory, full of wonder and awe at the limitless possibilities of the future. We have many of the same Facebook friends. Anyone who knows what's happening between us could conclude he's happy. Reading his posts this evening, I concluded as much.

My dad just came downstairs in his bathrobe and invited me outside for a cigarette. (He changed into pants and a t-shirt first; it's bitterly cold outside.) We talked a little about money; I offered to return some of what mom and I had purchased if he felt we'd spent too much. He repeated that I needed to look good. And, he said, I shouldn't worry about money. He'd help me. He would be leaving me money anyway when he dies, so why not give it to me now when I need it?

Once a mythic Sampson of a man with a thick, brown beard, my father is now in his late 60s. His hair, now silver, is practically gone, and his face, now clean-shaven, has begun to cave in just slightly around the cheeks.

I told him about my smoking pot with my downstairs neighbor. I was afraid he might scold me, but his mouth curled into a smile - a sort of half smile, half smirk, completely ageless - and he said, "reminded you of the old days, huh?" Indeed, it did.