that teenage feeling.
I work late. I come in and walk to the kitchen, to look out the window, to see whose lights are on in the brownstones behind me. I’m not so alone when their lights are on, too. I have a beer and a bath. I listen to music made by young women. Younger women. Upbeat music. No soul needed. I think about outfits. I think about rugs. I distract. I am distracting. I am living in between daylight and a dream. Painting a fresh coat of sugar on the walls of my mind.
love: a sort of traffic accident of the heart.
I worked on these babies during my time at Bumble. They really do what they say they do, which is give your hair buoyant body and soft, seabreezy texture.
A line like that has to pass through a billion channels - legal, claims, consumer testing, marketing, presidents, blah, blah, on and on, opinions, opinions - so ending up with ever-so-slightly poetic benefit copy is a big achievement. I’m proud. Wash your hair with this shit, k?
Photo from ITG.
sometimes just the sky.
an approximation of my (new) new york state license photo taken today at the department of motor vehicles in brooklyn that does not, unlike new jersey, kindly provide a mirror to check on what your hair is doing, allow you to see yourself through bartenders’ eyes before shrugging yes to the thing, or give the option to retake the photo, not that the second ever comes out better, but the second chance is the stuff of the human experience, which is the only thing one hopes for, one asks of the ceiling while standing in line at the DMV.
I think now it is better to love no one
than to love you. Here are my black clothes,
the tired nightgowns and robes fraying
in many places. Why should they hang useless
as though I were going naked? You liked me well enough
in black; I make you a gift of these objects.
You will want to touch them with your mouth, run
your fingers through the thin
tender underthings and I
will not need them in my new life.
- Louise Glück, here are my black clothes
spring/summer outfit/lifestyle plans.
friday vibes.
life is like
What were you thinking for dinner? From the train from the store from the couch on your phone in your pjs every night who will get it who will cook it who will clean it and then sleep.
for a while
and then it’s like
Where do I find the tightest highest waisted jeans? And wear them and dance in them and drink in them in front of a mirror to magic man on repeat until you beat the old routine out of your shocked-up system.
and there isn’t much of a medium
or at least
not one that’s memorable
right?
