heat, not sunlight, ripens tomatoes.

so says the snapple.

it is sad this going downstairs to buy a snapple becomes an event.

i tried having a blog thing in college – live journal – but stopped because – it seemed like everybody else was so good about being witty and cynical and smart about their own lives and observations but – mine seem so dull. Which is lame because I’m supposed to be a writer, right?

Which leads me to this thought: when I write, I don’t write about my self, or this world, really – details of the things I feel/see/experience make there way into what I write but – I am not trying to capture this actual world. It is a completely different world. Because it doesn’t feel real to me, it’s easier to write. i don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I don’t know if this means that I don’t write truthfully- because I’m not writing about the actual world.

I read an interview with Sara Ruhl – wonderful things happen in her plays like people turning into almonds and love-striken men cutting down Alaskan trees for their lovers and dragging said tree across the stage – she says that these poetic things ALL stem from her perception of the world around her – the acutal world – so does she write more truthfully than me? If I find a way to connect what I actually feel and see every day to the playground of words and strange things that are my plays – will I write better?

How do you actually change yourself, as many times as you might acknowledge the thing that needs changing?

Why does the top-ish button my grown-up dress keeping popping me open, revealing my supple side boob?

Why, now that I’ve found two sweet girls to move into my apt – are there tons of greenpoint studios online?

Why did I sleep like some contortionist last night and now Looking Left hurts like hell?


I’m going to have kids named Hazel, Nelly and Valentine. They will each have their own kitten.

Last Night Michael made it abundantly clear how much he’d like to raise a chicken farm. nay, a chicken village. They would all have costumes and homes. The butcher, the barber, the baker. After fostering a relationship with them as caregiver, he would then dress up like Godzilla, tear into the town, and fry those little sons of bitches. And eat.

His brother is coming this weekend, who has been viscerally described as ‘little jaundice goat.’ I can’t wait to meet him.

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