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Color me 97 different flavors of excited that Hay-den made me new pictures! You're a whole basket full of studly, you are.
Last night in my brain I was at a cocktail party, and overheard the following snatch of conversation: "so there I was burning my bra when all the really -smart- women were saying 'another martini, please?'" The man with yellow fingertips and thumbs nearly spilt his gin gimlet all over the carpet at that one. (A gin gimlet=a jigger and a half of gin and a half jigger of lime juice, well-stirred with ice.) He doesn't talk so much now, but he sits on a picnic table behind my right eye during the day and whispers occasionally. If I wrote, I would write this, and it would sound like Marquez.
I've been insomniacal lately, and I'm not sure why. I've also tried to cut down my evening caffeine consumption, and this might actually be part of it. This morning on my way down 7th to work, a man stopped me and said "hey, you look really familiar." I rolled my eyes and started to keep walking, but he said "no, wait, I know why. you look just like that actress...uhhhh, what's her name? Cate Blanchett!" That stopped me right in my tracks. I think he may have been on drugs.
Let's talk for a second about how exciting Paul is, for so many reasons but especially because he made me a copy of this new Eels cd which I am, of course, in love with as much as I was in love with the last four. I wonder if E is married....
I used to write a lot about Brad before he melted down and became a lawyer. Then not so much. He'll be 34 this week, and he's been on my mind. All the boys from the old days have. I feel 93 years old tonight.
“What would you do if I died tomorrow?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said. What would you do if I died tomorrow?”
I am exasperated by this question. All of the little hairs up and down my arms have stood up to mark their protest against this question. The soles of my feet prickle in annoyance. “Well, I guess I’d probably go have a milkshake or something. Jesus. Why do you always ask me that? You know that I hate it.”
“All I want is a serious answer from you.”
“No. All you want is proof that my life would cease to have meaning without you. All that you want is assurance of your immortality in my brain. Really, all you want is for me to cosign your happy lease. And I won’t do that. I will not give into these morbid impulses of yours. I’d go and have a milkshake. End of story.”
This is a conversation that never ends, and an argument that I know I won’t be able to win.
Last night in my brain I was at a cocktail party, and overheard the following snatch of conversation: "so there I was burning my bra when all the really -smart- women were saying 'another martini, please?'" The man with yellow fingertips and thumbs nearly spilt his gin gimlet all over the carpet at that one. (A gin gimlet=a jigger and a half of gin and a half jigger of lime juice, well-stirred with ice.) He doesn't talk so much now, but he sits on a picnic table behind my right eye during the day and whispers occasionally. If I wrote, I would write this, and it would sound like Marquez.
I've been insomniacal lately, and I'm not sure why. I've also tried to cut down my evening caffeine consumption, and this might actually be part of it. This morning on my way down 7th to work, a man stopped me and said "hey, you look really familiar." I rolled my eyes and started to keep walking, but he said "no, wait, I know why. you look just like that actress...uhhhh, what's her name? Cate Blanchett!" That stopped me right in my tracks. I think he may have been on drugs.
Let's talk for a second about how exciting Paul is, for so many reasons but especially because he made me a copy of this new Eels cd which I am, of course, in love with as much as I was in love with the last four. I wonder if E is married....
I used to write a lot about Brad before he melted down and became a lawyer. Then not so much. He'll be 34 this week, and he's been on my mind. All the boys from the old days have. I feel 93 years old tonight.
“What would you do if I died tomorrow?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said. What would you do if I died tomorrow?”
I am exasperated by this question. All of the little hairs up and down my arms have stood up to mark their protest against this question. The soles of my feet prickle in annoyance. “Well, I guess I’d probably go have a milkshake or something. Jesus. Why do you always ask me that? You know that I hate it.”
“All I want is a serious answer from you.”
“No. All you want is proof that my life would cease to have meaning without you. All that you want is assurance of your immortality in my brain. Really, all you want is for me to cosign your happy lease. And I won’t do that. I will not give into these morbid impulses of yours. I’d go and have a milkshake. End of story.”
This is a conversation that never ends, and an argument that I know I won’t be able to win.
