keeping a notebook

'why did I write it down? in order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it i wanted to remember? how much of it actually happened? did any of it? why do i keep a notebook at all?'
joan didion

keeping.a.notebook at gmail dot com
Nov 12
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Last night I broke my strict rule about not supporting the Begging Children Industrial Complex and gave five pesos to an Argentine boy because he said I was ´bonita´.

Don´t let anyone ever tell you I´m anything less than a goddamn PHILANTHROPIST.

Nov 05
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Here are just some thoughts I've had recently.

  • A voicemail? You seriously just left me a fucking voicemail? Do you even fucking know me?
  • Christ, beer is good. Who made that? Oh my god, more please.
  • I know I don’t even have my ears pierced or any tattoos or any other cool, scarring things, but seriously, dude? You though having pieces of plastic/wood/glass/whatever the size of CDs was a good thing to have put into your ears so that now when you take them out your earlobes remind me of the private parts of a senior citizen? No. You fucked up there.
  • Remind me again why I don’t eat dairy? I may have fucked up there.
  • Hey pants, why the fuck did you reveal yourselves to be the least flattering thing ever only after I removed the tag making you unreturnable?
  • Will you marry me?
  • Argentina for the next month. No hablo Espanol. Joder puta.

Nov 01
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Last night got weird.

I went out, drank a totally reasonable amount, did not say anything offensive to anyone, then came home and went to bed at a reasonable hour to go to work this morning. WTF.

Oct 29
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“ You know what song I love? Paparazzi. I heard it playing in Carrefour the other day and I was like, ‘What is this MASTERPIECE?’
— My sister. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Except I think the tree is our mom, but whatever, you get it.
Oct 28
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Argentina.

  • My sister: Don't wear shorts, you'll like look an American.
  • Me: What do you wear?
  • My sister: Shorts.
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“ Hand holding is more intimate than anal sex.
— Julia.
Oct 25
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A checklist for whether or not you are depressed.

  • Comfortable clothes ONLY (leggings with flannel shirts for fancy outings, your sister’s high school sweat suits covered in cat hair for everything else)
  • No food all day, then macaroni and cheese at 2 am (use the recommended amount of butter, then more butter in place of the recommended amount of milk) (ramen is an acceptable substitute for macaroni and cheese)
  • No sleep at night, sleep ONLY between the hours of 10 am and 10 pm
  • Nighttime sleep replaced by hours upon hours of woman/teen-specific television programming (some suggestions: Glee, Grey’s Anatomy, Say Yes to the Dress)
  • No showering (unless maybe you are forced to go someplace like a party or a bar and by forced I mean FORCED)
  • ‘Early and often’ for drinking, not voting (absentee ballots are too hard right now)
  • CONSTANT nausea

I’m just saying.

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tylercoates:

I recently told someone a story about a friend of a friend of a friend who ate some mushrooms and accidentally kidnapped a little boy because he thought he was an elf. Last night I talked to the friend from whom I heard the story, and I got it all wrong! It turns out that instead of a three-year-old, it was a ten-year-old. And he thought it was a troll, not an elf. Also, the boy had Downs syndrome. And I think I forgot the detail about him keeping the boy in his closet with a saucer of milk.

Now that we cleared that up, I’m going to try to remember which of my friends I told this story.

Goddamnit, I heard this story once too about a ‘friend of a friend’. Except they kept him in a bathtub. Although it was totally outrageous, I’d always kinda hoped it was true, but duh, of course it was not.

Oct 21
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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

jordanreid:

Diamond Rings’ “All Yr Songs.”

Oct 18
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I saw this movie yesterday, on an IMAX screen, with a friend who was leaving her apartment for the first time since taking an abortion pill in her kitchen 36 hours earlier. She changed her pad in the theater bathroom while I waited outside holding our snacks. We made a checklist of tasks to complete in this outing: Laugh Weep Eat theater popcorn covered in brewer’s yeast from home Those things were accomplished and so I think the movie was good. I cried about this beautiful unique child wearing a silly sweater while sitting so patiently in class while no one appreciated his exquisiteness and only the day before his igloo had been crushed although he had totally brought it upon himself, but that is true of most of the worst things in our lives. I cried because I wanted one of those little besweatered babies so I could love him and appreciate him the way he deserved to be, and then later I cried because after he bit his mother, I no longer wanted one at all and was reminded of when I verbalized to the fucking cunt of a dog that I’m currently dog sitting that I was going to take her out into the backyard and slit her throat. Look, guys, it’s been a long week. There is something Gabe Delahaye said once about this movie: Where the Wild Things Are is all about the inescapable nature of life as it’s presented to you, not only by the laws of reality, but within. All of us must face up to the world as it is given to us, for worse but also for better. Max eventually grows homesick in his kingdom, and despite his “unhappiness” at home (tangential and vague at best, in the book, probably elaborated in the movie for dramatic impact) he returns of his own desire, to find hot supper waiting no less.There is no self-created replacement for being genuinely loved. All of us here in Seattle are heartbroken (most likely I am projecting, but that is how it feels). All of us think that maybe, probably, you only get one in life and sometimes that one moves to Africa or marries a forty year old or is an alcoholic or won’t leave upstate New York and then what do you do? (To be fair, all of us in Seattle are also very young.) I could not even experience the unconditional (if not fleeting) love that comes from being a dog or cat lady because if any pet asked too much of me (i.e. be fed before happy hour rather than after) I would murder it in the backyard. Someone just bring me a sadness shield instead.

I saw this movie yesterday, on an IMAX screen, with a friend who was leaving her apartment for the first time since taking an abortion pill in her kitchen 36 hours earlier. She changed her pad in the theater bathroom while I waited outside holding our snacks.

We made a checklist of tasks to complete in this outing:

  1. Laugh
  2. Weep
  3. Eat theater popcorn covered in brewer’s yeast from home

Those things were accomplished and so I think the movie was good. I cried about this beautiful unique child wearing a silly sweater while sitting so patiently in class while no one appreciated his exquisiteness and only the day before his igloo had been crushed although he had totally brought it upon himself, but that is true of most of the worst things in our lives. I cried because I wanted one of those little besweatered babies so I could love him and appreciate him the way he deserved to be, and then later I cried because after he bit his mother, I no longer wanted one at all and was reminded of when I verbalized to the fucking cunt of a dog that I’m currently dog sitting that I was going to take her out into the backyard and slit her throat.

Look, guys, it’s been a long week.

There is something Gabe Delahaye said once about this movie:

Where the Wild Things Are is all about the inescapable nature of life as it’s presented to you, not only by the laws of reality, but within. All of us must face up to the world as it is given to us, for worse but also for better. Max eventually grows homesick in his kingdom, and despite his “unhappiness” at home (tangential and vague at best, in the book, probably elaborated in the movie for dramatic impact) he returns of his own desire, to find hot supper waiting no less.There is no self-created replacement for being genuinely loved.

All of us here in Seattle are heartbroken (most likely I am projecting, but that is how it feels). All of us think that maybe, probably, you only get one in life and sometimes that one moves to Africa or marries a forty year old or is an alcoholic or won’t leave upstate New York and then what do you do? (To be fair, all of us in Seattle are also very young.)

I could not even experience the unconditional (if not fleeting) love that comes from being a dog or cat lady because if any pet asked too much of me (i.e. be fed before happy hour rather than after) I would murder it in the backyard. Someone just bring me a sadness shield instead.