After a night of restless sleep, night sweats, teeth-grinding and nightmares, I awoke with searing scapula pain and wired nerves: My cut with Oribe is tomorrow. Clearly, my body and mind are working together to tell me that I'm meeting one of my idols tomorrow and am more than a little anxious about it.

Arguably, even though you guys may not completely get it, this is one of the most significant milestones of my life. Even without the Cancer factor—can one of my influential media readers get in touch with the AP Stylebook editors and tell them we've decided Cancer deserves a capital C?—this would still be a defining moment.

In short, I'm a complete hot mess. Physically, preparations are fairly simple: do nails, tweeze, shave, eat light today, etc. But wardrobe? Fuck. Right now I'm thinking a simple white shirt with jeans, accessorized to the tee. Potentially, these photos could end up in a real magazine—if I get my shit together and bother to pitch, which I haven't done since J-school—but at the very least one of them will end up framed.

I can't believe I'm this nervous. I thought landing a meeting at Conde two years ago was my Mary Tyler Moore moment. But even riding the same elevator as Anna pales to this.

Moreover, I'm getting tired of having to explain to my local friends who Oribe is. What's wrong with you people? How can you grow up in Miami and not know one of the only—if not the only—fashion legends in your midst? I mean, I'm almost insulted for him. Seriously. Aside from Bruce Weber's omnipresence at Joe's and Prime 112, fashion-wise, it's all about Oribe. My God, my stomach is in knots. This is no joke. My clinically-diagnosed—by L.A. psychotherapist and MB psychiatrist—'fear of success' seems to be rearing its head at the worst possible moment.

Klonopin scrip is getting filled today. In fact, I think I'll go now so I can make all my preparations sans-scapula pain and wildly zig-zagging brain activity.

Oh God, I just went back to his Web site and started tearing up when I saw his Versace campaign from the heydey.

At the root of this, natch, is the fact that this is a pretty little ending with a bow on top to the story I've been telling for the past few years. Meaning, I now have the beginning and ending of the memoir done. Now it's all about editing the middle. Everything's written. Three-hundy pages of words waiting for me to edit.

Shit! I cannot locate my original copy of Gianni's South Beach Stories, but I've got the Versace Signature book of his FIT exhibit—where I infamously cried and embarrassed Meredith—which I will have him autograph. Jesus, I've never been this verklempt over meeting someone, ever. And I've met lots of interesting people in my life.

Ayayayay. More TK. I'm going to the gym to release some of this energy. Look for a Tasmanian Devil whirling around Collins Ave in Nike shorts. With an untamed mop of hair for the last time ever.