Today I saw a seven year old on the metro wearing skinny jeans and I was all, “Giiiiiirl, where’d u get dem jeans!”

No, really. Where? Cos that shit is gross.

“I really can’t afford to get lunch.”

Which is why I walked out of Bottega Louie this afternoon with just a coffee–and, uh, $14.60 worth of French pastry perfection.

But to explain the impulse: It was Saturday. I had just seen the babe of my dreams at the library, I bought a great book for a dollar, it was raining, and I just kept playing the same song five times in a row on my iPod. So a box of macarons, wrapped like I wasn’t about to tear through them in a gritty strip mall in downtown LA? Just icing on the cake.

Nothing is more mortifying than traveling with cats.

On your way out of Montreal middle-aged women–all en route to all-inclusives–cling to their husbands as you walk by. You are the married life angel of death. Alone and spinster-esque. Burdened under the weight of your overpacked suitcases and cat kennels, reeking of desperation. One woman shudders and checks her ring finger when you pass. No one makes eye contact.

Actually, wait–the one thing more embarrassing than traveling with cats is when you set off your camera’s flash at LAX. A dozen tourists whip their heads in your direction, hoping for Lady Gaga or an Olsen twin. And when the light of the flash dies, there they are: a dozen horrified faces watching you stand outside the arrivals terminal, overdressed and still overpacked, taking pictures of your cats.

Sorry; is there something else I should be doing right now?

OH JUST EATING A FAMILY-SIZED POUTINE ALONE IN MY APARTMENT.

Once I took one of these puppies home at 4am and squeezed garlic mayo all over it. Put ‘er down, felt like a million bucks the next morning. I was younger then. Just wanna let everyone know that when I die of gravy-cheese-fries indigestion later tonight, the world will have a new legend to tell.

UPDATE: Ughhh, I’m halfway through. Gotta fight the feeling, can’t follow the light, army of one, etc.

Don’t make the same mistakes I did, guys. Order the small. Don’t be a hero.

This weekend I told Nichole that Steve Buscemi is sort of my dream man. I’ve thought about it since and maybe it’s a bit too conventional-masked-as-contrarian? Can I still love Steve Buscemi? Does loving him just paint me as some cheesy Enid archetype, my casual Bob Skeetes fantasies later manifesting themselves in Buscemi’s more dimensional Seymour? Am I just some Daniel Clowes pastiche of a woman-girl?

Anyway, I had a major breakdown over it. Oh!–not the Steve Buscemi shame crush–the fact that I’m packing away three boxes of comic books without giving each volume a proper goodbye read. Thankfully, I can actually afford USPS Media Mail, even if it means two weeks until Eightball.

All-time low: the smile on my face when I woke up to text:

Jan 15: 7:33 AM
From: Nichole (Mobile)

before i got your text last night i had a dream i went to see your cats and they were huge!

This makes me happy on so many levels. I mean, IMAGINE IF MY CATS WERE HUGE?!

(Also I love Nichole.)

I have a lot of postcards to mail, but I can’t find a post office.

There wasn’t much to say, anyway. It’s warm, it’s beautiful, it’s refreshing; I miss you.

From my apartment you can see shoes on a telephone line. From there, a palm tree, and beyond that, lights. At night it’s only lights. Even the sky. You look up, but every time you think you see a star it’s just a plane.

I wonder if they see the city in reverse as they leave: lights, palm tree, shoes. When I find out, I’ll let you know.

Why don’t dogs live forever.

Sable: Jan 25, 2009; 4:30 pm from Inarticulate Theory on Vimeo.
I loved you so much.

Honestly, that quesadilla was so fucking good. Like, too good. I’ll probably end up shitting my pants in public pretty soon just to restore balance to the universe after all that goodness.

Also, these pictures were taken six hours apart, meaning those are two completely separate and unique Diet Coke taste experiences, a-thankyou.