It’s such a shame to waste time. We always think we have so much of it.
Let’s spend our week nights eating cereal on the floor
when there is a perfectly fine table behind us.
We can go to the movies and sit in the back row
just to make out like kids falling in love for the first time.
We’ll paint the rooms of our house
and get more paint on us than the walls.
We can hold hands and go to parties we end up
ditching to drink wine out of the bottle in the bathtub.
and slow dance with me in our bedroom
with an unmade bed and candles on the nightstand.
Let me love you forever.
Don’t tell me that you love me, because anyone can tell me that. Tell me that I make you tear up with anger and frustration, but at the end of the day you still want to lay down next to me, put your arms around me, and sleep.
- me: but it's 2 AM
- stomach: did i fucking stutter
I moved to New York in April of ‘96. I was living with my boyfriend at the time, Matt Besser, who’s a member of UCB, in an apartment on 10th Street and Bleecker, right across from a store called Condomania. It’s probably a Ralph Lauren now.
- friend: you should've come with us!
- me: an invitation might have helped
Joan Didion, writer of painful truths, hilarious observations, and wicked-good sentences, turns 79 today. She has taught us about the pleasure that can be found in keeping a notebook and the mixed feelings that can be experienced when moving away from a city you love.
Happy Birthday you glorious, glorious woman! Here’s an article with some beautiful quotes from her works.
(Don’t read today’s NY Mag article, it has her all wrong and made me mad.)
And I can’t
but to run my fingers
down your spine
like you are my
book. But I still
cannot read you,
your own language.
Your pages are
tired and torn,
but I want you,
I want it all.
You can’t breathe - so you write.