Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

as i get older, i find that i can fake happiness better. i can look people in the eye and make conversation and look presentable and stand up straight but sometimes i feel so lonely it's hard to exist. like there's nothing i can say or do to get rid of this feeling. it's hopeless. 

The deli on our block was owned by this couple from Tajikistan. It was opened 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and once in a while there would be a new young man working there. The men who stopped working there, eventually drove ubers. I know this, because I sat in one of their ubers, which is the only time we ever got to have a long conversation ( Read more... )

"Weight ia value to me, not that that is any more compelleing than lightness, but I simply know more about weight than about lightness and therefore I have more to say about it ( Read more... )

it's too simple to just say that this place is just ugly. It is so boring that I have eaten two bags of chips ( Read more... )

What if it is on the second floor of a restored art museum and the men are wearing these identical tan jackets and there are lot of ironic giant bow-ties. Every other person is dressed up in costume. Some are identifiably from the handsmadestale. Others are just wearing unicorn things on their heads ( Read more... )

I feel oddly trapped in Virginia although I'm not quite sure why. Maybe it's the weather, the heat. the segregation. the fact that there are no public transportation? the ugliness? its been sometime since I genuinly did not want to discover anything ( Read more... )

and i loved it. I loved it because I'd never gone to the beach before, and now it felt like I was living this whole new life. A life where I totally go to the beach.

It is a party at my moms house, typically, half a million dollar cars lin the long crumbling driveway up our hill. Ladies, step out, holding tuberware of various Chinese foods they've made ( Read more... )

One of the things I love about living with Paul, was that he used to carefully pick up every piece of post-it note I have written on, and usually I just kind of leave them in stacks around the house. He'd collect them and put it in a safe place for me, because he was afraid they were fragments of my genius or something ( Read more... )