I want this to be the end-I don't want to start again
Dear Friend,
Today, I met up with Larsen just in time to catch the last hours of sun and drink undiluted absinthe on the beach. Met up with Caleb. Went to the Alleys. Ate some shitty salad. Caught the shuttle to 3rd Street. Saw TransAmerica, which was excellent. I really hope that woman gets a fucking Oscar for her performance. Scary security guard decided to come sit behind us in the theatre.
aw. My face at an unflattering angle and Caleb all fucked up on that hollyood shit.
some cool shit Larsen made for me with his mad photo skillZ.
So, that sick and hollow feeling is here again. For no reason whatsoever. An emotional sensation equivelent to the first time you realized that there was no past and no future, not really, only the present. And what were you doing with the present, with this present, this gift, this fleeting moment in the illusion of time that you could use to change the next moment somehow? You were spending all the muscles and nerves in your meticulous machine of a body to sit here and think about something unpleasant.
My warped logic is hissing to me that everything I fear is coming true, all my suspicions can be confirmed. Everyone's going to leave. I'm going to be here all alone. I'm no fun anymore.
I'm so sick of this. I wish I could just, you know, trust people. But then again, the minute you do a stupid thing like that, everything always falls apart.
Something is wrong. Something is very very wrong. I'm not making this up. I can tell.
moment of zen:
(pause)
I love the way Jonathan Weiner's paintings are always stories. I mean, without a plot, ofcourse. but look at this fucking painting. It's like a movie still that they'd use for promotional purposes because it somehow makes you think about the subject as an actual character, and the room she's in, and where she works, and whether she drinks coffee or tea. Or, I mean, atleast it makes me think about that.
I remember in seventh grade our teacher talked about writing from observation. She said she'd go down to chinatown and walk around, looking at people on their patios and making up entire stories about their life. peek throug widnows-wonder about family histories. I thought she was kind of creepy.
Love always,
Tara
ps-It's Larsen's birthday, so happy birthday motherfucker!
edit: I feel really bad. I called my friend to leave a message, figuring he'd have turned his phone off because it was one in the morning and he has finals tomorrow and would probably have gone to bed. I
forgot he uses his damn cellphone as an alarmclock and woke him up.
uuuggrrhhhImreallysorry.
Today, I met up with Larsen just in time to catch the last hours of sun and drink undiluted absinthe on the beach. Met up with Caleb. Went to the Alleys. Ate some shitty salad. Caught the shuttle to 3rd Street. Saw TransAmerica, which was excellent. I really hope that woman gets a fucking Oscar for her performance. Scary security guard decided to come sit behind us in the theatre.
aw. My face at an unflattering angle and Caleb all fucked up on that hollyood shit.
some cool shit Larsen made for me with his mad photo skillZ.
So, that sick and hollow feeling is here again. For no reason whatsoever. An emotional sensation equivelent to the first time you realized that there was no past and no future, not really, only the present. And what were you doing with the present, with this present, this gift, this fleeting moment in the illusion of time that you could use to change the next moment somehow? You were spending all the muscles and nerves in your meticulous machine of a body to sit here and think about something unpleasant.
My warped logic is hissing to me that everything I fear is coming true, all my suspicions can be confirmed. Everyone's going to leave. I'm going to be here all alone. I'm no fun anymore.
I'm so sick of this. I wish I could just, you know, trust people. But then again, the minute you do a stupid thing like that, everything always falls apart.
Something is wrong. Something is very very wrong. I'm not making this up. I can tell.
moment of zen:
(pause)
I love the way Jonathan Weiner's paintings are always stories. I mean, without a plot, ofcourse. but look at this fucking painting. It's like a movie still that they'd use for promotional purposes because it somehow makes you think about the subject as an actual character, and the room she's in, and where she works, and whether she drinks coffee or tea. Or, I mean, atleast it makes me think about that.
I remember in seventh grade our teacher talked about writing from observation. She said she'd go down to chinatown and walk around, looking at people on their patios and making up entire stories about their life. peek throug widnows-wonder about family histories. I thought she was kind of creepy.
Love always,
Tara
ps-It's Larsen's birthday, so happy birthday motherfucker!
edit: I feel really bad. I called my friend to leave a message, figuring he'd have turned his phone off because it was one in the morning and he has finals tomorrow and would probably have gone to bed. I
forgot he uses his damn cellphone as an alarmclock and woke him up.
uuuggrrhhhImreallysorry.