?: “I guess that’s why they call it window pane.” !: “Maybe our relationship isn’t as crazy as it seems / Maybe that’s what happens when a tornado meets a volcano.”
Somehow I still don’t think of myself as someone who has psoriasis. It’s like a weird micro-amnesia; one day all I can think about it curing my psoriasis, or picking my sores until they’re gone, so skin will replace the bloody craters on my scalp and shoulder and then it will be gone. But, of course, scratching is bad. Then an hour later I’m absentmindedly picking again....
Elena: ewwww OWEN i had a DREAM about anime porn me: what that’s weird Elena: which i have never seen in real life
10/20/2010 Denver to LGA
The DJs were charmingly smug, overweight, soft and sweaty, probably gay. My experience of “clubbing” is limited, but “Bootie” seemed pretty tame for a Saturday night. It was crowded, but not packed. I kept my wool sweater and rain coat on as we walked around the two floors of loose crowds, quickly making our way through Coronas and cheap whiskey sours. B. was looking for a girl from work, but...
On my first experience watching Jersey Shore
Being someone that spends the majority of my time reading/watching things with structured narratives—fiction, journalism, essays, conspiracy theory movies, etc etc—I found it really hard to adjust to watching Jersey Shore. I knew basically what it was, having heard about it from numerous friends—stupid people partying, fucking, lifting weights and screaming at each other was basically the idea I...
It’s possible that it’s a very simple, logical equation, and I’ve just been fudging the numbers for the past three years.
What is the function of hating myself for liking things that I used to like and no longer like? Was it really so terrible that I owned all of Ani Difranco’s recordings until about 2006? Or that I read all of Haruki Murakami’s books in college and thought they were all really good? And now, when I try to read Norwegian Wood again, or listen to another of Ani Difranco’s...
They seem sad a lot. There’s three rooms on the floor, and I can feed sadness through the walls. I open a hole in the roof and let out steam. Sometimes things disappear and I’ll ask where something is, and they won’t say anything, and then it will appear a couple days later, near where I thought I left it. But if I needed ten dollars one of them would give me ten dollars. ...
Without noticing, while he was talking, Leon had rested his foot on one of rungs of the chair in which Madame Bovary was sitting.
Emma, however, would have liked to be married at midnight, by torch-light; but Père Rouault found the idea incomprehensible.