they pulled my hair at charm school.
they
stole my guestbook during
rolecall.
d is for diamond + February.23.2005 = damned,
+ d is for dogs or, dog! one border collie-labrador mix on pacific st. all curly black fur and big dark eyes and actually allowed me to pet him and seemed sad when i stopped. (one for parks! dogs have been literally running from me as of late. perhaps it�s the eau de stress I�ve been slathering on each morning.) anyway, wanted to steal aforementioned dog from the scottish man holding onto the leash. dinner at pacifico, which reminds me of old lakeside camps. mismatched furniture and plates; wood walls and a huge old fireplace; the light all amber and warm. crying at dinner due to the generously insightful explanation of my bottoming out -- circa 1994-95 -- and how that event (the college story) still has its hot hands around my throat... which leads to: disastrous public breakdowns: crying Barcelona train station after 8hrs+ on planes & trains & still had no clue how to read a map & saved by Tall Texan who had just come from Pamplona. (yes, he ran with the bulls and had scraped knees to prove it. ) devlin in my inbox: duras �I already know a thing or two. I know it�s not clothes that make women beautiful or otherwise, nor beauty care, nor expensive creams, nor the distinction or costliness of their finery. I know the problem lies elsewhere. I don�t know where. I only know that it isn�t where women think.� denial while cleaning room at 11:00 p.m., i find an old tiny container of stila eye gloss, and despite fact that i stopped wearing it due to possible allergic reaction, decide to smear it all over eyelids anyway. (its such a pretty shiny sand color!) spend next half hour fretting that my eyelids are going to swell and/or i will be blind. milky cleanser in the bathroom and pale splotchy face in mirror is dreadful! dream in which thurston moore is standing very close to me and whispering something. i am watching his huge pale lips...but what is he saying?!? finally, he tells me he is whispering so that i will lean closer to him. david bowie queen bitch
9th grade was the worst. In Mr. Bodenstein�s room due to falling out of favor with my girl group.
G train at 7:30 in the morning.
At small table near juke box at a crowded Brooklyn bar.
didion
�Anyway, have enjoyed your recent entries, though many leave me feeling
quite sad. It is almost as though Joan Didion has leveled her sights on
Brooklyn hipsterism and found it to be utterly bankrupt.�
prev/next
class
notes, file of pom-pom
ghosts!
