Instead of going out, I've been going in. You know those heavy introspective phases when you hole up, reexamine your life and call every choice into question? That's where I hang out these days. I spend weekends curled up on the couch, not answering the phone, staring at the heater grating, waiting for the grand epiphany that will make it all make sense.

Clearly, my evenings do not a fun, fabulous Style Council blog make.

The Animatronics played the Roxy Saturday night. I spent the evening in my robe contemplating my hands. Please refer to the masterfully rendered photorealistic annotated diagram below:

1. On my left thumbnail are two blobs of red nail polish – different shades – one, the color of fresh blood as it flows from a new wound; the other is darker, like the thick, coagulated variety indicative of stagnation or death.

2. A burn.

I answer the phone while heating up a frying pan sprinkled with coconut oil.

"Hello," I wheeze.

"Hello Dani."

It's my ex – the one I'll always love regardless of how twisted and co-dependent our relationship was.

"OW!!!"

I burn myself as I toss a colorful variety of chopped vegetables into the pan.

"I was going to see if you were hungry and wanted to grab some sushi."

And this concludes the short but telling metaphor for our entire relationship.

3. Silk screen ink. I had the insane idea to schedule a sample sale/salon while still in the throes of biological/existential upheaval. On the heels of the acupuncturist's strict order to "Rest. Do nothing. Just rest," I spend Friday on my feet, silk screening three dozen t-shirts for Sunday's sale.

4. Like a bumbling eighth-grader, I am still prone to jotting notes on my person; hands, arms and legs are all fair game when there's nary a scrap of paper in sight. I've been invited to participate in/write about a shamanic exploration of the Divine Feminine in Peru this summer and am strategizing sponsorship to pay for the trip since magazines/newspapers don't pay for crap. A couple ideas found their way to the back of my hand.

5. A freckle.

6. Scars from various gymnastics-related surgeries.

7. Yet another note (somebody get this girl a Moleskin!). Dr. D is a brilliant integrative physician upon whom I've harbored a crush for years. After a surfing accident, a coma, numerous brain surgeries and a flatline, Dr. D. emerged with a rockin' sexy skull scar and a renewed passion to revolutionize Western medicine. We'd scheduled an interview for Friday to help publicize his efforts. Weak, exhausted and shaky, I tried to reschedule our interview to no avail. I dragged myself to M Café and picked at a pile of dandelion greens while half-heartedly grilling Dr. D on the benefits of an integrated medical approach versus that of traditional Western medicine. After ninety minutes, Dr. D's companion was antsy and I was dangerously close to passing out. As we said our goodbyes, Dr. D pulled off my hat and gave me the once over.

"You should wear color. Go buy yourself something expensive."

He then prescribed a mugwort bath at the Korean spa and a Thai massage – simple, silly instructions which, in my lightheaded delirium, I jotted down on my forearm.

8. A deep, craggy multi-colored scab garnered while weeding Joe Donnelly's garden last weekend.

9. Rings. Pearl on gold chain, plain gold chain, another plain gold chain and shrunken disco ball on gold chain - handcrafted by me while feeling crappy though crafty.

10. Black hair tie. For those instances when my long, thick lustrous locks annoy the fuck out of me.

11. While there is nothing on my appendanges to indicate such, let the record show that Ben Goldhirsh (founder of Good magazine) is no trustafarian. He's got the wits, the heart, the goods and the foresight to prove it...and the posture.

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