The worst

I was thinking about love. Young love. Lust. Desire.

The worst. Whatever it is. The thing that's not love.

The worst when they stop loving you. The worst when they never did start.

And when it's gone. It's gone. She's gone.

It's just a nothing. A nothing you must forget.

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. Life is beautiful.

I spend so much time being sad. Right now I'm tired and sad. I want another glass of wine and more sleep. I want money, a massage, endless holidays. I want a tropical island. Heat. Water. I want Iwantiwantiwantiwantiwant

some notes I wrote to myself

like fucking hieroglyphs I no longer understand. perhaps that's why I make the same mistakes over and over.

or maybe mistakes are just something I do to keep myself entertained.

book will be nice

Chris, upon request, was lovely enough to pick up The Bad Girl by Mario Vargas Llosa for me. So far, I'm fucking in love with it.

I need to take a break from The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michael Chabon. I love his work... but it's so rich. I'm afraid I'm missing the beauty if I read it too fast. and it wasn't letting me escape. For some reason, I painfully relate too well to a Jewish-alcoholic-divorcee-homicide detective in Alaska... It just wasn't where I wanted to be right now.

The Bad Girl is about love, or lust, and takes me to hot places I want to go. That sounded dirtier than it should have. I meant Peru.

I'm so fucking cranky right now, but writing this out makes me feel better.

A woman, who was a major influence on my life, used to use other people's sorrows to either justify her sadness or depression... or gain attention. Either way, it was an awful habit and infuriated and embarrassed me. There is another version of this though. someone who is cold and horrible enough to use other people's sorrows as an excuse for inexcusable behaviour.

Just cause you were wondering

I DID have a dream that I lent my bass to Charlie for a show and he snapped the neck and it fell on the floor and it just dropped to the ground and he just kept fucking around on stage.

Kids more fucked up than I was

I'm about halfway through Palo Alto stories by the actor James Franco. I'm not enjoying it. It's not horrible, it's like a really good story by a high school senior. The kids don't have emotions, or enough emotions, or emotions I can relate to. I haven't read Ellis, but wonder if that's what he's going for. Not my style, but it's good to mix it up... I guess.

exactly the type of book I want to be reading, most of the time.

I "read" The Great Gatsby in high school-what a shame I didn't actually enjoy reading things like this back then... I guess it really took Ondaatje to shake me into the whole book thing. By "read" I mean-read the first chapter, skimmed the book, skimmed the end, listened to the teacher and aced the test.

Reading it this January-it was just what I needed and just where I wanted to be. It's a quick book. but, between quick lines, I was certainly hit with some stand out beauties.

Man. I wish I wrote about this right after I read it, as opposed to months later with a head that aches. but I feel like I gotta get this out.

Tom cheated on Daisy. Daisy knew. Daisy cheated on Tom. She didn't really seem to care. Gatsby put so much effort into attaining Daisy. He built a whole life around it. Daisy and Tom sit in the kitchen. It was a powerful silent moment. a married moment. Gatsby died. BANG BANG BANG!

Well, well... this doesn't sound much different than reading the answers from that test in high school.

4:The Great Gatsby-F. Scott Fitzgerald

it's the selfish

that make me ache.

the selfless just cause a real pure kind of pain.

i love those things that

only we know.

i love those things that exist between us. those things of beauty. love. those results of years and the right person.

a place for cold feet. a peak in a door. the way you walk and what you'll say.

the

little

est.

littlest.

the littlest.

the littlest comment infuriated me.

so small.

so furious.

what can I say about wuthering heights?

it angered me. it upset me. it frustrated me.

when people want each other enough. if it really was love. nothing should have stopped them.

i can't believe he called out begging to her ghost. were they evil people, or was it just an evil time.

it made me think in gray.

the greatest love story. no dice in my books.

interesting way to tell a story. absolutely.

i still am grateful to have experienced the story, and i did because of marie.

3: Wurthering Heights-Emily Brontë

it's sad

when something's lost forever.

my favourite feeling is a broken orange spine and musty yellow pages. good lines and a sun bleached trip down bank street.

it was nice for a moment. no shooting stars. nothing spectacular. almost something that was barely visible.

but something that felt good. briefly. very briefly. just a moment now gone.

because young love

is relative.