he's cute sometimes.

It has been a long time since I have been close to someone in the sense that I could touch them whenever I wanted. I forget what intimacy is.

l

See, Henry Miller gets it - why can't anyone else?

.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

I have a new job writing papers for lazy uneducated stoners that I go to school with. I refer to these people as my clients and have no concern for the morality of this situation.

wild horses.

Something about this picture makes me feel completely dissatisfied with my life; currently.

;

I think the perfect man for me would be very tall and occasionally bearded. He likes horror movies and flannel shirts and reads actual books of which he has actual opinions. He's well liked but doesn't try too hard. He always orders dessert and likes early mornings and never makes fun of me for speaking in hyperboles. He also should not show up for about 2 - 3 years because the last thing I want in my life right now is complication or companionship. There is a serious misconception about misery and company.

I used to be so much cooler 5 years ago. Like I hit my prime in highschool and everything from then on has been a slow, eventual decline.

birds of a feather, flea market treasures, lazy sundays, sick mondays, breakfast in bed.

!!!

My hair is finally past my shoulders. The longest it has been since I was 16. : )

sad city

George Orwell is ruining my life. I just finished "Down and Out in Paris and London" and he had some pretty awful things to say about the restaurant industry. He refers to a chefs work as such:

"He earns his bread in the sweat of his brow, but it
does not follow that he is doing anything useful; he may be only supplying
a luxury which, very often, is not a luxury. "

Years ago I think I had a much more idealistic view of the future; Even when I was a kid my endeavors were limitless: I wanted to save the world, do a little good for mankind. Somewhere down that line I decided that I just wanted to co-exist - and now I feel so disappointed in myself. I love what I do, but is my work really useless? Would my occupation feel unsatisfying? I keep asking myself these questions and feeling so confused. I know it's not because I don't love what I do, it's just that I'm terrified of having to get a real job and grow up. Maybe I just keep thinking "what am I doing with my life?" because I want more.

In happier, less distressing news: I painted this week for the first time in months. Despite my abuse of the talent, it still felt natural. And it felt so good to create.

In Search of a Midnight Kiss

I finally saw this movie. I laughed. I cried. I felt embarrassed by the resemblance of the plot lines to my own little life. I loved the way it was shot, not "Hollywood" at all. I didn't love the ending - but I never do these days; if it's a happy ending I feel envious and cynical and if it's a sad ending I feel angry that the imaginary lives of the characters end so bitterly realistic. I don't think I will ever, ever, ever get married - but if someone were going to propose to me, I guess I'd like to have them do so on a ferris wheel.

My commitment phobia is evidenced by the fact that it takes me 25 minutes to pick out a box of cereal at the grocery store.

Reductions

There is a Burt Reynolds movie marathon on TV. Can I think of a better waste of time? Nope.

"No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee."

Sometimes I am watching myself live; like in a movie. I am objective. I see myself making mistakes; I make them anyway. I feel despondent, and I don't know how to fix it. In this way, I feel like I am living two separate lives. torn. Part of me wants to be alone: undisturbed silence, solitude. That part of me desires to be reclusive. The other part craves human intimacy - in such a way that I feel I am incomplete because I share no part of myself with anyone. When you let people in, I feel like they keep a little part of you - holding a secret like a fingerprint or a lingering memory. These pieces survive us. And because I don't let anyone in, none of me survives apart from myself. That is true loneliness. I'm trying to fix it, I just don't know how to reconcile the pieces of myself to one functioning person.

Orwell

" It is a feeling of relief, almost of pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs - and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxiety "