(no subject)
I hate being stuck in the one city
where I have absolutely no one to talk to.
It's been over a week since I've had contact
with anyone other than my mother.
I can only occupy myself in so many
ways. I can only throw so many one-person
dance parties in my room.
I'm tired of digital photography. I'm
ready to get back in the darkroom, feel
the weight of my SLR, mix vanilla-
scented chemicals with my blood.
I was told I never share my knitting
projects. I started this in Paris. It's so hideous.
I adore it so much.
"She was delicately morbid in all her gestures, sensitive, arrogant, vulnerable to flattery. She veered between extravagant outburts of opinion and sudden, uncertain halts, during which she seemed to look to him for approval. She was in love with the idea of intelligence, and she overestimated her own. Her sense of the world, though she presented it aggressively, could be, he sensed, snatched out from under her with little or no trouble. She said, "I hope you are a savage."
-So far, the only redeemable paragraph from Mary Gaitskill's Bad Behavior, "A Romantic Weekend"