Pssst

To rectify the glaring lack of entries pertaining to the boy who believes that this journal is a bit too revealing but would also like to know just why, exactly, he isn't ever mentioned:

Look, you exist.

Another Way To Tell

On TV, the host asks the winner (who's holding her hand just so toward the camera so the audience doesn't forget the gargantuan diamond engagement ring) to pinpoint the moment she knew she had fallen in love.

Is this how people think it really works, with a neat before and after, two precise halves, or is this just the made for TV version? Exact moments seem more appropriate for recording earthquakes and tornadoes and other natural disasters.

Thinking about this somehow prompts a delayed addendum to that whole "reading someone else's book recommendations secretly means you're madly in love" silliness. Another surefire (although somewhat precarious and not for the faint of heart) method of determining whether or not is it love:

Look at the old baby pictures, photographs from elementary school, and if you're feeling terribly brave, jr. high and high school. Look at the pictures from six months ago, a year or two years ago, before the weight was lost or the hipster cool image was fully formed, before the confident (or distant) expression had time to be perfected and donned as the favored suit of armor. Look at the mess of photographs and remember that it is not because of a pair of emo boy glasses or particularly nice pompadour (ahem) or outfit, and it is never just one exact moment.

If you will be wondering in 11 hours how the weather is in Long Beach, call me.

I Miss You, Is What I Am Trying To Say.

Can I tell you a favorite memory? I promise I won't get too sentimental. Some Friday night when winter was still holding its breath, the trees had lost their leaves but we were wearing t-shirts, walking down University looking for a place to eat. We passed a thai restaurant and I got one of those grins on my face, tugged your hand and declared that we should get the biggest roast duck dish that money could buy. You shook your head in disapproval, said that I was very cruel to my vegan best friend. To you it must've seemed a harmless enough thing to say; you hadn't been warned, didn't know that people tended not to say things like that to me, and I wasn't sure whether you were very stupid or very brave. After all, there's a difference between having connections and having friends, and I wondered if you knew about it.

Today was empty and blue and the sun was bright as ever -- causing a slight discoloration in my hair; it's very orange and I'm not sure wether or not I like it, yet. Fall is fading fast but the winds are coming in. All I need is sugar and more tea to really fool myself into thinking that it is winter and that I'm perfectly on top of my life.

Tonight is a tiresome night and I am a tired, lonely girl. I only wish... well... I think I'll just leave it at that for now.

Good night, starshines.

I Am In Desperate Need Of Company.

Lately, too much time spent wondering why I don't know anybody. I like to come up with all sorts of creative excuses, so tonight's involved my dislike of inconsiderateness and cacocraphy (seeing how so much of the world's population seems to fall victim to at least one if not both of these afflictions). I wonder how many people I've known who have claimed to have as few friends -- Hundreds? Thousands? Well, at least five. I'd always found out later that their concept of friendlessness was a bit more figurative than mine, and I couldn't help feeling tricked and hold it against them. It's only during the lulls that I manage to remind myself that life is not an unpopularity contest.

I read somewhere not too long ago that Samuel Beckett blamed his claustrophobia on having a painfully acute memory of his mother's womb.

Samuel Beckett always cheers me up.