I was feeling super grumpy today so I looked at a bunch of photos that make me happy and these are two of my favourites from the week Nichole and I spent 168 hours together–that’s 24 hours a day, seven days straight. We slept in the same bed the whole time, shared a phone, and even had our first sort-of fight.
Here’s what I wrote in my diary* the night I realized I could spend the rest of my life with this girl:
nichole and i pulled a total stepbrothers moment and bumped into each other in the bathroom that joins our rooms, and we were both wearing oversized airbrushed tshirts and i think that’s when i realized that we’re soulmates and/or hilarious.
here we are having a sleepover aka lan party because we’ve in love it’s actually really disgusting
When I first met her I was super nervous because she’s really pretty and I didn’t want her to think i was gross. Anyway, our one year love anniversary is coming up. Should I get her a gift yes/no/maybe?
- this postcard, an impulse buy at the Rose Bowl. I was killing time by thumbing though a bin of yellowed landscapes, until then this little gem of stoner-artist perfection came stumbling into my hands. And what a model of composition! I’ll bet one of those Marxist neo-craft communes made a killing off this print back in their day. Good on them.
I’m putting it on my fridge as a reminder to call my parents–and pay my rent. (Because when I do go home I’ll be pretty down-and-out; let’s be real.)
- oh, and I bought a lemonade, too. I was pretty thirsty.
Last night I dreamt my hair was cut off. I woke up exhausted.
According to the internet, it’s some loss of power / female castration thing–I mean, I did fall asleep reading Female Chauvinist Pigs, which works off one of the most annoying theses I’ve ever read. I probably drifted off into some argumentative dream rage and scissored out of spite.
But as someone who has never really valued hair, I feel sort of exempt from the collective unconscious. (Actually, I can’t stand when someone touches their hair. It drives me crazy.)
Anyway, female betrayal and loss of power are just the myth. It’s not the hair that exhausted me, but I know what I should cut off.
I have the sweetest cold ever and I’m trying to power through it, unmedicated–just ride the mucus wave or something–but it’s just been a disaster so far.
I woke up this morning to discover an email I had drafted on my Blackberry, probably during some work-dream haze, asking my boss,
Wait, do you really think we should advertise on Danielle Steele novels?
Really glad I couldn’t find the “send” button on that one.
Ugh I feel horrible and I just want to sit around feeling sorry for myself but I can’t because my entire head is gigantic and Precious Moments-esque. WAH.
i totally just fell into a youtube k-hole trying to find the darkroom scene from crazy/beautiful.
why cant you find movie sex scenes on youtube anymore? do you know how hard it was for me to find the library scene from atonement? like a good version of it, and not some shitty diddler cam?
I really hate it when people blog videos. Like, honestly? I only set aside about 20 seconds to skim your site, and quite frankly, that YouTube embed is just greedy.
So this isn’t me blogging videos, this is me blogging that my Sunday night playlist gave me a raging boner and I’m going to need about 5 minutes and 39 seconds alone now.
I think I must have eaten 36 varenekes in the week I was back in Montreal. Each time I lamented my last meal at The Main, because it was 4am and I was drunk or tired or hungry. And we all agreed that this was totally the last time, but ended up going back the next day anyway.
I invariably acted like I was going to order something different but never did. I opened the menu, did not look at the menu, said “should I get a grilled cheese?” When the server came, I ordered the plate of varenekes.
Which is only funny because it’s so typical-Michelle. I make a decision, pretend to look at the options, pretend they might have informed me to make a choice, pretend to open the table to suggestions, then continue to act upon my first impulse.
And I guess that’s why I’m in Los Angeles now, eating frozen perogies at 4am on a Saturday night.
