and all your food is frozen and needs to be defrosted.
This is the end of my third week of in-home caregiving. The third day I started a haggard and frantic post, but it will stay on private forever because no one needs to know about all that. Suffice it to say I am now much better at cleaning elders' bottoms.
I don't know why I love Elizabeth Bowen so much, but I do know it is probably a sin. Finished Eva Trout. Eva Trout! I only wish I knew someone who would enjoy it as much as I did, but anyone I might recommend it to would inevitably hate it and question our friendship. I also want to saturate myself in Henry James. All of this seems to add up to the possibility that I might be better off as a librarian than as a student of literature. (Here is what I want right now: Elizabeth Bowen, Henry James, Willa Cather, Graham Greene and maybe even not-quite-Bowens like Anita Brookner and A.S. Byatt. I'm just a simple girl with simple tastes. If you give me shit about it, I'll knife you.)
I have to finish The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge so I can have something to say for myself when I write to Rachel Cohen. The problem is, I like it best when I'm drunk, and then only about five pages at a time. I'll give you a sample: "My God, if any of it could be shared! But would it be then, would it be? No, it is only at the price of solitude." I think it was very sweet of her to recommend it, and you can surely imagine how wonderful it is when drunk.
Tonight is homo a go go! Seven years ago, it would have been a dream. I wonder if throughout my life I'll keep having all my 15-year-old-self's desires belatedly realized. That was the last time I really wanted anything, maybe, so my life might still be steering on in that direction with me indifferently on board. Probably. Tami Hart will be there! I'm going to get trashed and tell her I had the biggest crush on her. The Gossip will be there. I am going to FREAK OUT on the dance floor.
I don't know why I love Elizabeth Bowen so much, but I do know it is probably a sin. Finished Eva Trout. Eva Trout! I only wish I knew someone who would enjoy it as much as I did, but anyone I might recommend it to would inevitably hate it and question our friendship. I also want to saturate myself in Henry James. All of this seems to add up to the possibility that I might be better off as a librarian than as a student of literature. (Here is what I want right now: Elizabeth Bowen, Henry James, Willa Cather, Graham Greene and maybe even not-quite-Bowens like Anita Brookner and A.S. Byatt. I'm just a simple girl with simple tastes. If you give me shit about it, I'll knife you.)
I have to finish The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge so I can have something to say for myself when I write to Rachel Cohen. The problem is, I like it best when I'm drunk, and then only about five pages at a time. I'll give you a sample: "My God, if any of it could be shared! But would it be then, would it be? No, it is only at the price of solitude." I think it was very sweet of her to recommend it, and you can surely imagine how wonderful it is when drunk.
Tonight is homo a go go! Seven years ago, it would have been a dream. I wonder if throughout my life I'll keep having all my 15-year-old-self's desires belatedly realized. That was the last time I really wanted anything, maybe, so my life might still be steering on in that direction with me indifferently on board. Probably. Tami Hart will be there! I'm going to get trashed and tell her I had the biggest crush on her. The Gossip will be there. I am going to FREAK OUT on the dance floor.