and the history books forgot about us, and the bible didn't mention us...not even once
please, fall in love with regina spektor, because she's got this dreamy voice and these crackhead lyrics and she sings about pickles and pickle jars and oedipusoedipusoedipusoedipus. noa thinks she's ugly, but i think she's cute. + the name of her album is "11:11 eleven eleven" and that's so magical.
wish on the time.
this past weekend, while i was living in the study lounge of my campus center, my mother called me and i crept away from the quiet lounge and its strange fishtank walls to an emergency exit door with a patch of sun on uncomfortable carpet. and there, curled against the wall watching my friends pass through a low-to-the-ground window (that was as surreal as hiding in the bushes), i talked to my brother for the first time in a month and all the while felt like i was in a movie and i cried a little. i must have looked so strange, sitting in the snulight, crying on the phone.
my brother told me he had talked to adam, of the mooney suzuki fame, also my childhood idol. he said adam had asked if i was still brilliant and it felt like someone had just hugged me from behind. i felt warm all over. adam thinks i'm brilliant.
adam just had a baby. she's cute. look. i can't say i'm much for the name "charlotte"; it always makes me think of prostitutes. and spiders. but prostitutes before spiders.
adam was my brother's high school friend and he was nineteen when i was ten. he and becky were my favourites among my brothers friends; they were both the art geeks of their high school, the kind i was so drawn to in mine. i always wanted to be an art geek. once, adam left his sketchbook at my house and, as i sat at my dining room table leafing through the pages of nude women in unstable pencil lines, i yearned to be an artist more than ever. at ten-years-old, i wrote with the words of a ten-year-old, stories about talking animals [blame "the chronicles of narnia"] and poems about girls with boys' names and boys with girls' names and a novel [one full composition notebook] about a cat and piano. adam made me feel older, made my writing feel older. i wrote about ten-year-old girls with no mothers, with painters for fathers, who cooked and cleaned and made sure their fathers were taken care of. but at night, the girls locked their bedroom doors and reached beneath their beds for sketchpads filled with smudged pencil shapes of shadows and tablestops and feet under bedsheets. my words were still the words of a ten-year-old, but, damn, did i feel cool.
adam made me feel like the coolest girl on the entire planet. i dreamed about growing up to be as beautiful as becky, with her cute hair and hand-painted shoes, and marrying someone as wonderful and creative and entertaining as adam. i delighted in his awkwardness and hesitant wit. adam is the reason i love geeks, and the reason i am a geek.
and adam thinks i'm brilliant!
this was three days and i am still basking in the glow of that moment. adam bayer thinks i'm brilliant. this will go to my head.
wish on the time.
this past weekend, while i was living in the study lounge of my campus center, my mother called me and i crept away from the quiet lounge and its strange fishtank walls to an emergency exit door with a patch of sun on uncomfortable carpet. and there, curled against the wall watching my friends pass through a low-to-the-ground window (that was as surreal as hiding in the bushes), i talked to my brother for the first time in a month and all the while felt like i was in a movie and i cried a little. i must have looked so strange, sitting in the snulight, crying on the phone.
my brother told me he had talked to adam, of the mooney suzuki fame, also my childhood idol. he said adam had asked if i was still brilliant and it felt like someone had just hugged me from behind. i felt warm all over. adam thinks i'm brilliant.
adam just had a baby. she's cute. look. i can't say i'm much for the name "charlotte"; it always makes me think of prostitutes. and spiders. but prostitutes before spiders.
adam was my brother's high school friend and he was nineteen when i was ten. he and becky were my favourites among my brothers friends; they were both the art geeks of their high school, the kind i was so drawn to in mine. i always wanted to be an art geek. once, adam left his sketchbook at my house and, as i sat at my dining room table leafing through the pages of nude women in unstable pencil lines, i yearned to be an artist more than ever. at ten-years-old, i wrote with the words of a ten-year-old, stories about talking animals [blame "the chronicles of narnia"] and poems about girls with boys' names and boys with girls' names and a novel [one full composition notebook] about a cat and piano. adam made me feel older, made my writing feel older. i wrote about ten-year-old girls with no mothers, with painters for fathers, who cooked and cleaned and made sure their fathers were taken care of. but at night, the girls locked their bedroom doors and reached beneath their beds for sketchpads filled with smudged pencil shapes of shadows and tablestops and feet under bedsheets. my words were still the words of a ten-year-old, but, damn, did i feel cool.
adam made me feel like the coolest girl on the entire planet. i dreamed about growing up to be as beautiful as becky, with her cute hair and hand-painted shoes, and marrying someone as wonderful and creative and entertaining as adam. i delighted in his awkwardness and hesitant wit. adam is the reason i love geeks, and the reason i am a geek.
and adam thinks i'm brilliant!
this was three days and i am still basking in the glow of that moment. adam bayer thinks i'm brilliant. this will go to my head.