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Part 6
New York, Sunday September 25

3:02 p.m.
Arggghhhh... Head feels like the bread dough that bakers dig into with their big strong hands, molding and shaping and bending to their will. Last night, I slipped again on my quest to purify myself and came home in wee hours of night with too much champagne mixed in with my blood. Got to go make coffee, be right back...

3:15 p.m.
Mmmm feel much better. Will go for second cup soon I think. Oh my dear dear diary, why can't I live up to my promises? I truly meant to be good, do away with the little party girl act. I have been trying very hard to extricate myself from the cycle of booze and dance and hangover I entered when I was 21. Like Al Pacino in Godfather III, I try to get out but "They" pull me back in. Or rather "She". Manny came over yesterday afternoon, the darling. Felt bad about hanging up so abruptly on me last night. Good thing she came too. I was still in my delusional state, thinking Peerooz is going to call me "this weekend".

We went to Starbucks around the corner, grabbed two large non-fat lattes and went for a walk. The weather was perfect, not too hot, not cold yet. Autumn is definitely my favorite season. I wish every month of the year could be either September or October. And the leaves starting to turn. Mmmm... be nice to take a boat up the Hudson like Ross and I did many years ago and just watch the leaves turn on both banks of the river. Manny and I just talked and talked. About men, life, career, future. About Ross. About Iran.

We came to tentative conclusion maybe reason I didn't follow Ross to L.A. was because I was still holding out for what we called the "Mystical Iranian Prince" or MIP. MIP is the guy with the face of Saeed Kangarani, the integrity of Behrouz Voussoughi, and the soul of Rumi, who will sweep us off our feet. He will make our parents feel happy and proud. He will accompany us to the Googoosh concert and know the words to sing along with. He will never call us Eye-ranian. He will not mind naming our kids Shireen or ParvAneh or BAbak. But does this man exist only in my mind? Manny and I were so engrossed in our conversation we didn't even notice we had made it all the way down to Battery Park. It was really nice to stand by the railings, looking out at the water and the vague silhouette of Lady Liberty in the distance.

That night, we decided to go for some groovy Arabic music at this Moroccan place in the East Village, Chez-es-Saada where we had many French Whores (relax, it's just a drink). DJ Frank (Farhad) is half Arabic, half Iranian. Manny's ex. Really sweet guy. He has stayed genuine friends with her, first I have heard of it for an Iranian guy. He played some Googoosh for us, in the middle of Arabic sets. I got plastered and danced with the belly dancer, a gorgeous girl with a fantastic costume straight out of the Arabian nights. There were some guys there, in town on a visit from Toronto. We were flirting with them the whole night, and had them convinced we were professional belly dancers who were at the personal service of Mayor Guliani. I laughed so hard all night. Smoked many cigarettes (very bad but only menthols therefore count more as breath mint candy). Really felt free and unburdened.

If I don't have an Iranian boyfriend, at least I am so lucky to have a best friend like Manny. Iranian friends are the best!!!

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