I'm drinking soymilk in chai and waiting for this evening.
The nice thing about paying attention is that you can be pleasantly surprised by your surroundings if you just notice. I guess this is why people go vacation in nature or something. To see something at once foreign and familiar. Something occurring naturally, on it's own, which confirms some hunch we have about our own experiences. I'm not really into nature though. I grew up in California, I've had my fill of nature.
The other night I was rummaging around in the cupboards in my kitchen and I found a metaphor for my heart. The pomegranate syrup an old room mate bought from a middle-eastern grocery store, probably some time in 2003. I feel real sympatico with it. I have no idea what it would be used for. Like, what recipes? I think my old room mate didn't know how to use it either, since it went mostly untouched. Like my heart / my love, it is: dark, sticky, will leave a stain, is possibly expired (does this syrup, does my heart, ever really spoil?), is sweet and at the same time bitter, and difficult to imagine using.
I threw it out. I've been thrown out, too, I guess.
I mean. I dunno. I've blown off so many really wonderful guys in the last six months. I guess, statistically, it's my turn to get blown off. Statistics never helped anything feel better, though!
Best friend Bobo uploaded some photos on one of her many adorable blogs.
When we were curly girls.
Or flirty girls.
Some other notes and ideas and pictures.
I got a ton of cute stuff in the mail today, kinda taking the sting out, you know? From mail order with my saved coins and tax rebates:
Chanel nail polish in shiny dark purple, codeword VENDETTA. (I am not a label whore, I am a word-whore. I am a spell-casting whore. I believe in the power of language even if I only speak the stupidest, most offensive one).
New Stinks. What I'll smell like. And then also, what I'll taste like. To sip while we stare at each other and talk about mitosis, at dusk, while we're waiting for the quinoa to finish cooking. I'll have put fresh sheets on the bed and I want to fuck, after dinner, while we listen to the Cocteau Twins when they were still punk, while the snow is falling outside, like it was this morning: in big, fat white chunks, somehow audible.
Also, Monday night, for heartbreakers: PAPS at Cakeshop.