whatever!

I hate this blog. I hate that I haven't lived on campus for two weeks and how that doesn't even come close to providing any context to the nine lazy months I've spent busy growing up and not writing an entry. I hate the absurd amount of notebooks I buy and haven't filled; how each one is supposed to represent the different types of information I wish to record--quotes, original thoughts, news items, personal reflections--and the way they all merge together and I move onto a new one when the other is only an eighth filled and then I ditch all of them because they weigh my bag down. Especially hate the way in which personal blogs would obviously make all these notebooks unnecessary, and superfluous. But I love this fall's TV lineup. And, secretly, summer's delayed yet sudden exit. It was painful, but we'll thank her later for not giving us reason to miss her.


I can't possibly be twenty years old.



--What do you want to listen to?

--This.

meta.

pardon the ridiculous nature of our first interaction in months (what seem like years?) but i had to comment; i just couldn't not. did you get a new camera? i guess the one i got you died? regardless, these pictures are stunning and perhaps your best, ever (2,3,and5). also, you used drunken and drunkenly and so i assume you now drink, which is both hilarious and heartbreaking. i wish i had something i could say here that would mean something only to you and me and the whole world would have no idea except for us, but that would seem too much like a methaphor for what you and i once were and so i can't bring myself to do it or to care. i'm writing a story about you. actually, it's an essay, for a literary nonfiction class i'm taking. i'm slowly coming to terms with us then and us now, and maybe one day i'll let you read it. maybe.

Dude. You're a Cohen now. Welcome to a life of insecurity and paralyzing self-doubt.

Bad news.
The OC has been cancelled.

It would seem as though life ended, just a little. I remember the days when I would overhear girls at the tutoring center talk about marissa or justin tell me, "no, it's not even because of the girls. the girls aren't even that hot. it's something else. it's just so good." and i scoffed. and then one weekend lea and i sat with cookie dough chocolate chip haagen dasz and watched season one straight through and basked in the joys of adolescence when it was ok for us to become slightly obsessed (remind me to knock next time, in case there's a threesome going on). that weekend, my brother scoffed, but then sat down for one, and then i caught him take my dvds and watch the whole season right after us. it followed into the john jay 11 lounge, where we converted many and endured season three and "the horse" and then ruggles, where tivo saved us all.

now i cry. it can't end. at least I have my dvds and endless memories of our good times together, saving chrismukkah, finding luke's gay dad, and people using each other's bodies as jungle gyms.

"she's hot ... for chino."

courtesy of the woman i love

Well maybe you should just drink a lot less coffee,
And never ever watch the ten o'clock news,
Maybe you should kiss someone nice,
Or lick a rock,
Or both.

don't go!

in other words,

So newspapers aren't dying; they're just undergoing an identity crisis. They don't know who they want to be.

Put even a fool in front of a window and you'll get a Spinoza.

After a couple of drinks in John Jay, my floormates shed their clothing, swaddled themselves in blankets, started crying, and watched Arrested Development. I'm not sure what lesson this taught me, other than that first-time drunks are both sweetly naïve ("Wow, I can't believe they didn't even search our bags when we came into John Jay!") and hilarious.

[This headline has been deleted.]

She seemed sometimes so sensitive that whole decades hurt her feelings, and the prose on the page suggested Valery's "shiverings of an effaced leaf," as if her next trick might be evaporation.

it made me miss my new york nothing

sometime in the past two weeks i snapped back to life and thank god because the what-does-it-all-mean-and-what's-the-point-of-it-all was getting a bit old and quite frankly, even too cliche for me. it's spring in new york. or late summer, and it feels like i'm getting to know everyone all over again like you do every early september. or maybe it's just stage two. i want to write a happy novemember ninth (eighth? seventh?) birthday letter explaining it all, everything, the silence and the neglect and the cold heart, because honesty would be the only and best present i could send, but it hasn't happened. i haven't had time? it seems like such a fantasy now. everything keeps going even if you decide you don't want to grow another day older. they're going to prague and oxford and becoming real people at foreign affairs and i like how real it is. are you really wearing makeup? i'm never going to stop wishing i could still write in my livejournal because THIS IS WHAT I THINK LIKE. sorry. graceful and funny. not fair.

"this is a great wall."