I just got to Virginia. I have to meet my supervisor in the lobby at 8:45 am. I forgot that I don't have the same name here, and the hotel receptionist couldn't find my reservation at first.

Richard is a guy who lives in New York. He was drinking with a group of friends when he called.

"One's a running club that drinks, the other is a drinking club that runs."

He's on track to run 1,000 miles this year by the end of this month, and it's only August.

"What are you writing tomorrow?"
"A story about anti-trust in baseball. I have to go to court -- go there, write it. Poof, poof. Bang it out."

I'm feeling down. Richard will always talk suicide with me.

"I feel like everything is dumb. I've already reached the pinnacle of my life and I should just throw in the towel."
"And die?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, there's no good methods, though. There's no surefire way. You need someone else to kill you, which is it's own kind of crime. Also, good luck finding one."

I complain that men tell me that "You'll be fine, you're so beautiful, you can just marry a rich guy."
He says that makes women crazy -- marriage.

"They crack up from the sheer banality of it all." -Richard, on women who achieve the marriage goal, and their subsequent crack up.

I tell him that my life was ruined when a reporter exposed me as a stripper/reporter. He says I should kill him. I let him know that the reporter got cancer later that year.

"Well if that's not a sign that god's on your side, I don't know what is!" (On that reporter getting cancer after he exposed me.) "I went to mass every day praying you'd get cancer and lo and behold."He thinks this is hilarious. He thinks I should call him and make fun of him for getting cancer.

I don't make fun of people with terminal illnesses.

"OH fuck THem! WE're all going to deal with terminal illness! That's the best time to make fun of somebody."

"I'm not trying to say his immortal soul is damned, I'm just saying his corporeal existence is ruined."

The point is there's no winning.

Richard has tips for writing, and he shares them with me, since we're both writers:

Rule #1 about write club: We never write for free.
Rule 2 about write club: WE NEVER WRITE FOR FREE.

He tries to find the saddest songs on his phone, and he sends them to me. We talk about the most comfortable way to commit suicide. He says women always fuck it up and wind up brain damaged.

It's late. I'm going to sleep.