Le sigh.
Books I've Read This Summer:
The Bluest Eye
Everything is Illuminated
Sophies World
Set This House on Fire
The Sun Also Rises
Books I'm Masticating:
The Time Travelers Wife
Future Contenders:
In the Skin of A Lion
I Am Charlotte Simmons
The Bell Jar
Naked Pictures of Famous People
Every Chuck Palahniuk Book Carrie Osborn Has Ever Given Me
I love thrift stores because they're a cheap thrill. I love the bad radio stations. I love that someone is always singing out loud, someone is always moving a couch or steal shoes, and the smell of laundry detergent never manages to out maneuver the years of sweat, semen,and a thousand other mundane blemishes that settle immutably into strangers clothing.
I go to the thrift store to fantasize about decorating my very first apartement/faux wood-paneled van/charity basement/store front/disco tech/row house. I found this wooden plaque depicting Paul Revere's ride from Boston to Lexington. It's a gem.
The British are coming! Death to the Republic! Etc.
When I want to indulge my morbidity, I remember that any of this could belong to a dead person. Some widower who couldn't bear the sight of his deceased wife's dresses hanging benignly in the closet next to his. He boxed them up and sent off and out of his memory.
Oh Salvation Army, be my late night lover.
The Bluest Eye
Everything is Illuminated
Sophies World
Set This House on Fire
The Sun Also Rises
Books I'm Masticating:
The Time Travelers Wife
Future Contenders:
In the Skin of A Lion
I Am Charlotte Simmons
The Bell Jar
Naked Pictures of Famous People
Every Chuck Palahniuk Book Carrie Osborn Has Ever Given Me
I love thrift stores because they're a cheap thrill. I love the bad radio stations. I love that someone is always singing out loud, someone is always moving a couch or steal shoes, and the smell of laundry detergent never manages to out maneuver the years of sweat, semen,and a thousand other mundane blemishes that settle immutably into strangers clothing.
I go to the thrift store to fantasize about decorating my very first apartement/faux wood-paneled van/charity basement/store front/disco tech/row house. I found this wooden plaque depicting Paul Revere's ride from Boston to Lexington. It's a gem.
The British are coming! Death to the Republic! Etc.
When I want to indulge my morbidity, I remember that any of this could belong to a dead person. Some widower who couldn't bear the sight of his deceased wife's dresses hanging benignly in the closet next to his. He boxed them up and sent off and out of his memory.
Oh Salvation Army, be my late night lover.