national almond day
Having a week where my skin feels too tight, and sixty percent of spoken words hurt my feelings and if I touch my hair at all I make it look worse. I feel unequal to this moment where we watch murder and dismemberment and unimaginable, irreparable horror unfold on Instagram while those responsible insist this were inevitable, even natural, and I feel angry about having to play pretend at my stupid job or having not the courage to do otherwise. I drank two beers and got a headache. I got lotion in my eye this morning and remembered against my will a time in college when a guy with yellow blond curls from Connecticut who lisped when he drank got something else in my eye. The episode remains clear in my memory despite the gummed-up vision. My green toenail polish on the floor and the dueling hums of fans running in every room of that popcorn ceilinged apartment, fighting both to beat the unusual April heat and to maintain the illusion of privacy in university housing for five. I was already bent over the sink and threatening to destroy the lives of all his future progeny when he said, well, you have sensitive eyes. While I dressed for either a fight or a sticky walk home, still deciding, he recalled a trip to the botanical garden three Sundays before when I’d trailed behind, wet and unseeing, as we followed his mother in prim lines across paving bricks. I left then and bought a Slush Puppie. I have no desire to go long today but so as to keep at least technically my commitment to weekly dispatches I will instead go short.
Sometimes I love taking the bus and sometimes I feel I am in self-imposed torture. I had to get rid of my car but I could have gotten another if I really wanted. I love being a passenger princess but my mom occasionally covertly is like what if you get dumped and can’t drive your boxes somewhere. I’m not remotely concerned with that and cars are bad and there are already too many of them in the streets stinking up the sky and running people over at an astounding clip. No, I love the bus, but I think there should be a mandatory class on how to stand on one without being in everyone’s way to such a degree as to make life seem hardly worth living. Bus drivers should make a million dollars if they’re good but most of them are very bad. We could defund the police and get buses men aren’t allowed on unless they pass a test which I will devise on LA Metro’s behalf. I am not a fascist but teenagers coming on board by the dozen from the Chik-Fil-A by the high school must be forbidden from wearing cologne at all and CERTAINLY from passing a bottle of it amongst one another inside the bus. Short women need to learn that being Oompa Loompa sized does not afford one special dispensation to shove others out of the spot you’d like to stand in just assuming you’ll receive no pushback except I guess that it kind of does because what am I going to do get in a fight with this bitch who’s wearing a Tigger hoodie on a workday??? I just want to go home! My desire be so vanishingly small as to take on the very shape of a forgotten corner and slip beyond perception is not one I wish on others in general however it would be a great help to all public transit commuters if even ten percent of the peer group could learn to take my lead.
Lisa Frankenstein (new Diablo Cody movie where a sad dork finds pleasure and play through accidentally bringing a dead pianist back to life) is very funny and I think genuinely good I don’t know what to say.
Greta and Valdin (gay novel where darling, neurotic young adult siblings—and the very cool and sexy older generation of their family all of whom I was obsessed with—learn about Love and Life) also funny and even better though it doesn’t have Carla Gugino of course.
We are having a NBA All Star Saturday Night party and there will be fondue. (dunking.)
I cut my mouth on a cracker on Tuesday and was convinced I was going to lose my teeth and probably die of sepsis and traumatize my loved ones so bad that they’d get interviewed on a podcast years later about finding the will to live again. It healed.
By the way these cunts who read The Cut really have a lot of nerve, don’t you think? The seething rage and disgust that these people have for my poor old Tumblr mutual (lmao) Emily Gould—whose only real crime has ever been being annoying which is, emphatically, not a crime (and I won’t allow these bridge trolls to pretend she doesn’t give good blog)— truly makes me feel like I am an alien creature observing the customs of a species I could only ever know, not understand. Obviously not every person (or even MOST people, maybe) frothing at the mouth in the comments section of New York Mag Dot Com is actually from New York but even so it affirms my sense that New York is populated by more miserable haters per capita than any other major city on the globe. An example of a time when I feel differently on this subject is when we are watching old seasons of Project Runway and Nina Garcia is so offended by anything bright or playful which is cool and very funny.
Should I go blonde to prove I love California and will never die?
I walked a hole into my favorite jeans.
I wonder if I am supposed to be more butch.
I lost my microfiber towel.
I ordered flowers for Valentine’s Day delivery even though it’s not an efficient way to spend money.
We got a new living room rug.
We will be seeing Madame Web this weekend so help me god.
We went to see this baby pop punk band last night who are so special and charming I almost hope they never get famous as it seems like quite a bad thing to be but anyway this, however on the nose, is also my view on people who leave mean comments on the Internet when they could be thinking and talking and droning on about themselves all the time instead. Or about John Irving or something.
My girlfriend cut her finger yesterday and had to talk me through making dinner which was kind of like on this TV show THE TASTE which is a food version of The Voice that I’d never heard of let alone seen before I knew Megan wherein, anyway, sometimes Anthony Bourdain would have to give a member of his team step by step instructions on how to prepare a dish, but he could not physically assist them or touch at all, and in one such instance the chef he was advising was a girl who was as sexually obsessed with him as all of us kind of were, in fairness, but she was expressing it to him personally and on TV. Actually, it was exactly like that.