I have returned to a prose form from my youth called thirteens. In reality, it is not a form I invented, but one I have stolen from a wise man who used to have Web TV and would send, via wireless keyboard, email missals.
I am sneezing and assuming that has something to do with the dog hair on the couch. Or the constantly running air conditioners. Perhaps the state of early Summer pollen. Or whatever gave me the faint dizzies and knotty lymph node earlier this week.
How do you feel about the new Fiona Apple record?
I would like to have a dark cave, something painted Abigail Ahern/Farrow & Ball Lead Pipe, because sometimes the sheer bright whiteness of this place feels a little awkwardly optimistic for my tastes.
Pausing for a moment to consider whether it’s too late to take a healthy action timed with the June 19 new moon.
"Of course I recognize her. Though I’ve only seen that face from your computer. On those blogs. The donkey one?"
Don’t want to talk/all I hear is noise
The critique of feminism is starting to expose that the true enemy is, you know, consumerism, which affects the working women and the non-working women, the moms and the non-moms. (And the XY’s.) But that’s prolly way too scary for all of us to admit.
This reminds me of some weird guy with orange shoes who was on the Colbert Report talking about how the universe is filled with empty space, which is constantly pushing outward, expanding, creating more empty space.
I fill my void with JCrew.
I’m not sure what the universe needs is more of my DNA. I love DNA! It’s very cool.
Some days I feel so deep undercover. The only distinction between the life I’m living, and the life Other People Like Me live is a state of mind. That’s right, I’m living ironically. Performatively. At a certain point the sedimentation of my acts is going to catch up with me, I suppose.
Until then, I’ll recognize the pangs of my own unique strand of identity when and only when I avoid getting pedicures. Drawing lines, daring to cross them. We create our own taboos.