my moon, my man
by A.
The moon’s out…my man is…somewhere.
Maybe?
Asleep somewhere in the towers of the silent city.
I really need to stop getting drunk and writing blog posts. That mobile WordPress app for Android almost does more harm than good.
I’m home now, I got a Naked juice and caught the L home. I read all sorts of stuff in my Economist. I used to love the New Yorker way more than the Economist, but now it’s completely the opposite. I can read an Economist for literally hours, where about 40% of the New Yorker is just random shit like first-run movie reviews.
I’m going to this organic burger place (that I can NEVER find) with Yevgeny tomorrow. Also, poverty be damned, I need some pants, shirts, and shoes. I should just wait until next week, but that money will probably just evaporate too. New shoes, at the very least.
I think it might be more prudent to stop drinking for a month. That would save me probably $40 a week…I’m not even going to add that up, because that would be a startling number. Fuck Don Hill’s, I’m doing $2 PBRs in Williamsburg. I should go to Hugs one night and just see what it’s like. Even if the music is shittier, I need to be more budget conscious. I need to ratchet back from my California “full-time-job-and-tons-of-disposable-income” mentality.
I’ve been having problems getting to sleep. I couldn’t fall asleep until 5 a.m. last night.
I’m feeling the Nausea again. But only when I go out alone.
I miss Sam. I miss Christen. I miss everybody.
I was thinking last night about why I can’t finish Simone de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins.
One, I’m so tremendously emotionally involved in it that reading those last 80 pages would in effect kill off all those people.
Two, that novel was my escape from the horrible process of putting Grammie in the nursing home
Three, I would always be reading it while Keith and I were dating, and it brings back tons of memories of him. Day after day, he’d be playing video games or something and I’d be totally engrossed in that novel.
I feel like Simone is more real than anyone I’ve ever known.
I had a horrible dream last night.
In it, my mom came to visit Grammie’s house in Sacramento. The house was a complete disaster, with trash and piles of stuff everywhere. The moment she saw my mom, Grammie started crying, ran over to my mom, and exclaimed “Oh, God, I’ve gone to the other side! Where’s John [her late husband]?” My mom looked at me, not knowing what to do. In a few moments, Grammie looked up and realized we were looking at her strangely, and started crying harder, with a bitter realization that she had no idea what was going on.
I often picture her in the nursing home, wondering where we all are.
There are some things worse than death, I suppose.
My grandma on the East Coast used to be sharp as a tack, but we’re noticing fraying seams. It’s little things, like calling eggplant “squash” and such, but that’s the way it starts. At least she has a sense of humor about it.
I have this feeling of pent-up tears. I should watch a sad movie tomorrow and get it out of my system.
I want to write the story of—well, I can’t mention it here. I would post it once it’s done though. It involves tears and irreconcilable differences. Must write it tomorrow.
God, I think Goldfrapp songs represent about 80% of the emotions I have on a daily basis.
Like the one I’m feeling right now.
Must try to sleep now.