My apartment, my self.

Now that we're back from the weekend, the computers are mostly down again, and I can't check my e-mail.

And I was hoping to leave early today to fill out paperwork for my new apartment. That change is approaching fast, and it's freaking me out.

I turned the whole thing into this giant identity crisis on Saturday, telling Lupo that I didn't know if the new apartment would reflect "me" as I see myself rather than the Bufordite, messier version of me that I think doesn't really impress anyone.

I have a huge ego about my writing, which may or may not be justified, but I'm very insecure about everything else. I wish that my own personality, in day-to-day contact, used the voice that I write with, if that makes any sense. I don't know why I'm not more "me" and why I fear that the new apartment won't help me find a better sense of belonging.

I spoke to a friend this weekend who just started college and told me that he didn't feel comfortable in his own skin, so he got a tattoo, changed his hair and pierced his eyebrow. Though he looked absolutely terrific, he also looked completely different from the way he looked a couple months ago.

I told him that I went through that when I was in college. But I didn't tell him that I feel that way now, felt that way last year, the year before that and the year before that.

My friend Vic's motto is this: "When you can't change your life, change your hair."

When I was working on that "Consequences of Falling" story, which I'm still working on, I realized that we're all together in feeling completely alone and misunderstood. There's no escaping yourself or your own individuality. Changes-of-scenery help. Changes-of-habit help. But you can't completely change your own nature.

Do we ever feel as though we're understood? I don't think we do.

So what's the solution in that case?