Friday, September 28, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Shock & Awe
Going to the humane socity "just to look" is like heading into the fudge shop "just to smell." I've managed to do both successfully, but the act left me hollow, a brittle shell of a woman, a wraith desperate to plug her empty heart with M&Ms.
You don't do something of this ilk without knowing, in your bones if not your brain, where you're likely to end up. The justakisses of the world, the onlyonebites and notgonnacheckoutanythings, are, ultimately, disingenuous: we know where we're headed, even if we dislike admitting our ends: boys, donuts, books.
So I can't pretend to be shocked we ended up with this:
But I can still wonder, a little.
You don't do something of this ilk without knowing, in your bones if not your brain, where you're likely to end up. The justakisses of the world, the onlyonebites and notgonnacheckoutanythings, are, ultimately, disingenuous: we know where we're headed, even if we dislike admitting our ends: boys, donuts, books.
So I can't pretend to be shocked we ended up with this:
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Quixoting Time
9/2/12: 98%
Mood: Gritty
Drink: La Croix
The fact that I am almost done with this sucker, and am therefore draining the dregs of two solid months of literary toil, is making me maudlin. I'm desperate to end it. Yet, as with so many terrible relationships, it's difficult, at the very last, not to hesitate. The end of Don Q means the end of summer. It means the days drawing down, the cold coming, death creeping closer and closer still.
Maudlin, like I said.
I find myself, in a Stockholm Syndrome-esque fit, missing the old coot. I miss him in the piercing way you feel an absence that hasn't yet managed to manifest itself -a keener missing, and a truer, than you can ever conjure once a person is gone.
O, Don Q! Your speeches; your long underwear; your saturninity! How will I go on, deprived of your windmill-tilting, your futile charging, your umbrage-taking, your ill-advised quests, your slaughter of straw men, your multiplicity of unhorsings, your hasty restreats, your glorious immolation of the body of practicality upon the bright, hot pyre of gallantry?
You didn't look good doing it. But then, how many of us do?
Mood: Gritty
Drink: La Croix
The fact that I am almost done with this sucker, and am therefore draining the dregs of two solid months of literary toil, is making me maudlin. I'm desperate to end it. Yet, as with so many terrible relationships, it's difficult, at the very last, not to hesitate. The end of Don Q means the end of summer. It means the days drawing down, the cold coming, death creeping closer and closer still.
Maudlin, like I said.
I find myself, in a Stockholm Syndrome-esque fit, missing the old coot. I miss him in the piercing way you feel an absence that hasn't yet managed to manifest itself -a keener missing, and a truer, than you can ever conjure once a person is gone.
O, Don Q! Your speeches; your long underwear; your saturninity! How will I go on, deprived of your windmill-tilting, your futile charging, your umbrage-taking, your ill-advised quests, your slaughter of straw men, your multiplicity of unhorsings, your hasty restreats, your glorious immolation of the body of practicality upon the bright, hot pyre of gallantry?
You didn't look good doing it. But then, how many of us do?
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