I am the kind of person who consumes tofu and likes it. I gave up caffeine. I contain my speeding to 10 miles over the speed limit. I keep most of my partying on the weekend. I am generally a law-abiding person.

But I teeter on the edge.

There's another part of me that's far too gluttonous and far too wild and far too stupid to know when to stop. I know this about myself, and I know there's a really delicate balance that I need to maintain. I'm like a pit bull tied up with a piece of yarn.

So I try to avoid any situations where I might let the worst part of myself run free.

But now I have to spend the night in L.A.

L.A. is bad for me. It's the ideal city for me to indulge all my vices without judgment. It's trouble. It's the kind of place where you can find an 8-ball to snort off a dead hooker's back -- and 10 other people to join you.

However, I need to be in L.A. tonight. It's my best friend's birthday. I love her, and I want to be there with her to celebrate.

I just don't want to let myself go anywhere near that soulless city.

I won't go into details, but the last time I went to L.A., I spent a good 24 hours thinking that I was going to die. Then I spent another 24 hours filled with regret and apologizing to the people around me.

So I'm writing a letter to myself this morning. A very personal, brutal letter about exactly what went down the last time.

Hopefully at 3 a.m. in the depths of a party -- when that pit bull is snarling and slobbering and about to break loose -- I'll pull that letter out of my purse and remind myself of what I need to do.

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 18, 2006 at 12:24 PM. You can skip to the end and leave a response.