I wrote 13 pages today, so I'm done working for today. I'm sitting in Sinai, getting my Herceptin drip.

When I saw Shrink Melnick last week and told him about my manuscript procrastination, his first question was whether I thought Ritalin would help me focus, since I told him I'm completely organized and focused in all other aspects of my life. And then I had to go into the whole debacle about my first book experience, wherein I got sued, mocked on Page Six (two or three times), Gawker (six times), WWD (three times), the Daily News not to mention scores of other un-noteworthy blogs. Some of you may not know of this saga, so forgive my laziness and follow these links. Though I did win a precedent-setting case against that sleazy company American Media, which publishes The National Enquirer and every other tabloid including Star, where I worked.

Anyway, my procrastination is due to the fact that I'm scarred by my first foray into publishing and have a deep-seated fear of rejection this time around as well. Even though I have much more support and a much better work this time around, not to mention the assistance of powerful authoress Laura Zigman, whose latest book is ready to help you find love. I'm the first one to admit that Dishalicious was a piece of chick-shit, which I wrote in three weeks when I was 28. Also, it was fictional, which simply isn't my forte. Cancer is the New Black is a no-holds-barred memoir.

I forgot where the hell I was going with this post. My other cancer friend is sitting down the hall from me in another room getting her last chemo. Oh, what a world. I'm broke. I didn't lose any weight since last time here, and this new year is not off to a very auspicious beginning. I'm blah today. Tres, tres blah.