1991 Anita Hill speaks truth to power, the Soviet Union calls it a day, the Gulf War begins, and it hits me that I'm looking for something I will never find with my boyfriend of nearly five years. The rites of passage are narrow and they come just once. If I hadn't walked away that rainy November morning, I know I'd have stayed for the rest of my life. I regret that it took me so damn long to figure out who I wanted to be when I finally grew up, and I regret having hurt someone I loved along the way.

1992 There is war in Bosnia, Rodney King in Los Angeles, Dan Quayle unable to spell P-O-T-A-T-O in a New Jersey elementary school, and I spend the next 10 long months filled with regret that I didn't eat more lasagna prior to starting my hideously grueling diet.

1993 The World Trade Center is bombed, Václav Havel is elected president of the Czech Republic, Heidi Fleiss is busted and I deeply regret eating all that lasagna upon completion of my hideously grueling 10-month diet. There's an old saying: to consume one's own body weight in melted mozzarella is to go directly back to your fat pants.

1994 I don't remember much about that year except for this: The AIDS virus was savaging beautiful young men, and Mark Carson—my partner in crime, my in-case-of-emergency-please-call guy, my whip-smart, deeply honest, very brave, infuriatingly optimistic, darling friend—died as I held him in my arms. He had goodness, he had integrity, he had cheekbones that could open an envelope. He liked bright lights and big cities. He cared about justice and art. And in my dreams he's always there, dragging me to the best Turkish restaurant in Astoria or playing some CD of an obscure albeit amazing indie rocker, or simply racing forward to offer me sanctuary within his incredibly generous embrace.