into the ether / and who isn't a writer
2007-07-27 4:41 a.m.

--a few days ago--

says kayne: "the prettiest people do the ugliest things." wow, kanye. did you go to an MFA program? that's effing deep. kanye.

the other night i visited perkin's family restaurant for the first time in my life. perkin's is a bakery/restaurant/hysteria/confusion that is open 24 hours, and serves pie. it reminds me of friendly's restaurant, for those of you who live in an area of the country blessed by friendly's presence.

i know my friend sandy used to order real food at friendly's. we'd go for ice cream, or breakfast, the only trustworthy things. and sandy would order the meatloaf platter. crazy, but i love her.

then christine and i would get ice cream and drive to the vitamin shoppe to eat it. specifically, the 2nd parking spot on the right side of the parking lot in front of the vitamin shoppe. these details were and are important. that girl could drive with her knees and hold a peanut butter sundae. and then sing.

where does all that stuff go.

--tonight--

i'm moving out of this apartment in a few days.

i haven't written here because i'm getting scrupulous all of a sudden, like i should give a real shit if these entries are good or not.

let me tell you how much i hate the subletters below me, let me tell you how they tried to steal the furniture i was watching for maggie (and wylie) from my hallway, let me tell you how they have a secret cat,

but not-so-secret sex, and not-so-secret bilingual arguments at 2 am about his drinking habits. oh get over it hon--all men drink too much. it's their thing.

or am i around writers too much? what are normal people like, again? i can't remember--

something to do with waking up and knowing how the day will end?

or saying what you mean? and doing what you say? and meaning what you do?

for non-writers, self-criticism might be an itchy tag on the back of the shirt that you finally remember to cut off one day when you have scissors. for writers, it is a chainmail vest, or an iron chastity belt.

and the last i recall, normal people don't have habits that threaten to grind them into gravel.

normal people enjoy their lives without irony. they play arcades and shop for towels and eat outback steakhouse without thinking, "this is such bullshit," and sniggering to themselves, saying, "i can't wait to tell everyone about this." they live without filters, without layer upon layer upon layer.

layer upon layer upon layer. onions and flowers and jawbreakers and metaphors.

ohhhhh, i don't even know where i live--between which layers i rest my head at the end of the day--it's always a surprise to me. every morning i make my best guess.