[Hi! This is something I never do, but: I hope you enjoy reading the semi-autobiographical short story I wrote today, during my self-imposed exile from my apartment because of a giant praying mantis. I haven’t been home since 9am and am losing my mind!!]
Fiona never went back to her apartment after the day the praying mantis took up residence in what had been her home. It had, up to that point, been a normal morning, in a largely ordinary life. Fiona was 29, a stable, steady age if there ever was one: the untamable tangles of her teens and early twenties wrested into submission, but not yet subject to the wildness and worry of children that might come in her 30s. She felt neither young nor old, and it seemed to her that she was in a pleasant blank zone, one where, for a few years at least, her age could simply not signify. She did the same things on most days, and had settled into an occupation, a place to live, and a man to be with. The mold of her life had gone solid and for the very first time, it appeared unlikely that anything truly surprising would ever happen to her again.
Seriously: Storm King. It is magic.
Impermanent furniture placement, but already so much less of a nightmare place.
(It’s a Dorian Gray-ish scenario though, wherein the better this room looks, the more the “den” deteriorates into slovendom.)
How is it possible that two people can spend at least eight hours unpacking, but have things look like this?
Listen, I love hearing about Beyonce’s baby, but as far as I’m concerned, the two following items are what really merit a story:
Solange, herself a mother, just relocated to Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, from Los Angeles, and sent her son to first grade this past week. She’s also working on a new record. #
Don’t you have so many questions? I have so many questions! (Like what school? And if I haunt coffee shops in Carroll Gardens will I run into Solange Knowles? And if I do, will we become best friends? Would she like me to babysit? Because I can babysit. Although maybe it’s weird to ask your best friend to be your babysitter? So, I dunno. But like, if say, her sister and brother-in-law need a babysitter, she should feel free to pass along my name. And most importantly of all, can she please make sure that all of the songs on the album are Sandcastle Disco-level?)
2011 Book #60
AAAAAAAAAAAAAH. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Is this a book with teams? Because TEAM PEETA.
I am twelve.
Oh, ARE THERE EVER teams. Actually, wait, no. I take it back. There are no teams because Gale doesn’t even register.
I like to think that “WOMYN aka HITCH (Demo?)” exists because Heems read this (probably, right?) and got very fixated on all it contains, as well as the idea that “AN INCREASING NUMBER of feminists are voicing their regret about not sleeping with a small but growing number of Das Racist members”.
At first, I read this ad on the back of a truck on Long Island as “white glove stabbing”.
“You grew up to have an affinity for lovely things, a possibly inflated sense of your own uniqueness, a teensy hint of self-righteousness (remember how she refused tea when they raised the tea tax? “Thank you, I shall take no tea!”), and a latent familiarity with Colonial Williamsburg.” (i’m pretty sure you all know exactly what this refers to)
I belong to the bitter last category (“no American Girl Doll”). This deprivation, coupled with the fact that my younger sister did get an American Girl Doll, along with the millions of salt particles in my wound, like the cunning little bedroom set and the special outfits, still comes up at least once a year in my family. There are no appropriate reparations that could ever be made to me.
"Flagpole Sitta" - Harvey Danger
It has turned out, again and again, that attendance at the free Harvey Danger concert at the Cambridgeside Galleria in the fall of 1998 is the single best indicator of whether someone (from Boston) and I end up as friends.
Why “likes purple” is the most pointed, apt, two-word description of a person ever, I will maybe never know, but it just is.
Don’t believe me? Here’s a thought exercise: think of people, but especially lady people, that you have known, who liked purple a lot. Really think about them. I know! It’s all so clear now, isn’t it?
Then spend the rest of your day (or however long you want! I don’t like purple that much, so no judgment here) categorizing people by “likes purple”/”doesn’t care about purple at all”.