You'd think I'd have more time to write, what with being home alone all the time now.

I do. I have a lot more time. I just can't think of anything to write. I can't organize my thoughts into interesting stories. I can only blurt out what I'm thinking. I'm cold, for example. I'm thirsty. My lips are chapped. Where's my chapstick? Stuff like that. Not interesting.

Can I ramble, instead? Will you read a very long, rambly entry? I knew you would. You're so cool. Have I told you that lately? You are. You're the best.

I never did my "Ode to Ghettoridge" entry. Maybe I'll do it someday, but not today.

You know the one thing I miss about Ghettoridge? My oracle.

What oracle? you ask. What are you talking about? you demand. I'll tell you. At Ghettoridge I had my very own prophet. My very own oracle. His name was Darren, and he lived in the apartment next to mine. He was probably in his early 30s. Kind of chubby.

There was definitely something "wrong" with Darren, but he didn't seem truly retarded. He lived by himself and seemed self-sufficient enough. The thing about Darren was, he talked to himself.

At first I didn't pay much attention to what he was saying, because to be honest, it kind of scared me. He talked loud. It's kind of startling to be awoken in the middle of the night by a loud conversation between a man and himself, do you know what I mean? It just is. I avoided Darren. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I did.

When I was forced to address him, I did so cheerfully, maybe overly so, to show that I held no prejudices against him. Good morning! How are you? Good, that's good! Have a nice day! And so on.

He'd always respond in kind, usually parroting back what I'd just said: Good morning! How are you? Have a nice day! and so on.

One day I was sitting by my front window, reading. I heard Darren roll his bike onto our shared balcony. As usual he was wearing his bike helmet.

Did I mention that he always wore his bike helmet, whether or not he had his bike with him? I imagined him in his kitchen, heating up mac and cheese with his bike helmet on. I imagined him in the shower, the water bouncing off his helmet all over the place. I imagined him (OK, I saw him through his window) wearing his helmet and watching television.

Anyway, as he walked up to his door, chattering to himself, for the first time I decided to listen to exactly what he was saying.

"You know," he said to himself, "you don't have to shop at K-Mart if you don't want to. No one can tell you to do that."

Interesting. And true, no less! You don't have to shop at K-Mart if you don't want to. Absolutely not. You can shop wherever you want.

The next time I heard him, I listened carefully. He said, "Frogs deserve to live, too. Even frogs."

Again, very true. Frogs deserve to live. Why not?

I was feeling rather philosophical at that moment, so I expanded his statement into a wider theory: Life is precious, even down to the lowest life forms. Take advantage of your life. Live, goddammit, live! Live your life to the fullest! Even frogs deserve to live! became my mantra that day.

From then on, whenever I could, I listened very carefully to Darren when I heard him come up the stairs.

If you've known me long enough, you know that I love stuff like this. Why? Because I'm an oddball. I'm crazy. I've got far too much imagination for my own good, that's why.

Anyhow, I'd decided that Darren was a modern day prophet, and if I was lucky enough to live in the apartment next to his, I was going to take full advantage of his wisdom. The Tao of Darren, I called it.

I was not disappointed. "If you lose at a game," he said one day, "Don't worry. You might win the next time."

I'd had a particularly unpleasant day at work, and this nugget of wisdom rang especially true for me at that moment. Indeed, Darren, I thought. If we lose, there's no point in worrying. We may win the next time.

Over the next several months, Darren poured forth the wisdom of the ages, disguised in the ramblings of a 30ish black man living in a less-than-desirable apartment complex in Anaheim, California. I can't remember everything he said, but with a little spin and a lot of imagination, it was some good stuff, let me tell you.

The last conversation I overheard between Darren and Darren went like this: "Where are you going? I don't know. You don't know? That's OK. You don't have to know. You're OK anyway."

Word.